


Catch Me If You Can

by CherryBlossomTide



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Gen, Jack the Ripper - Freeform, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 13:12:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherryBlossomTide/pseuds/CherryBlossomTide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A killer is stalking the streets of Whitechapel, following in the footsteps of Victorian London's most infamous killer. Molly, Lestrade, Sherlock and John must try to catch him, before the district descends into uproar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mary Ann Nicholls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dweo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dweo/gifts).



> This was written as a Rantmas gift for Dweo.

_**Mary Ann Nicholls**_

_It’s raining when Mary Ann leaves the inn – a hard-driving, quick-soaking summer rain that splashes up from the dirty cobbles and stains Mary Ann’s petticoats dark. She’s wearing three sets of skirts and two blouses, a small bundle containing a knife, a cambric handkerchief and her purse tied to a string sewn to the inside of her petticoat. Everything she owns is on her back or between her legs, as she said earlier to the man at the bar. He’d laughed, but hadn’t bought her a drink. Never mind. Plenty of other fish in the sea: especially with her new bonnet. Small, black and lacy it frames her small face in a way that makes her look ten years younger. She’s earned her rent money four times over tonight, though it’s all spent now. Well, that’s in the way of things, isn’t it? Easy come, easy go._

_When she reaches her hostel she puts on her friendliest smile, but the doorman won’t let her in without a fee. Mary Ann doesn’t ever beg – she prefers to flirt her way out of trouble._ Always have a smile on your face, girl, _her mother used to tell her,_ have a bit of a joke. No one wants you when you’re sad and desperate. _The doorman doesn’t want her either way. He folds his arms, lips pursed, unimpressionable._

_So, back on the streets again. Mary Ann isn’t worried, at first. She’s drunk enough tonight that she doesn’t feel the cold. The rain seems like a curtain soft and warm, and she sings to herself as she wanders the streets._

_An hour and several rejections later, Mary Ann isn’t feeling so sure of herself. The rain has driven most of the punters in, and the temperature has dropped. She’s shivering now, her skirts sticking to her, black with the washed down London smog. She thinks of the women she’s seen, waxy skinned and still, stiff in doorways when the morning comes. Where’s a man when you need one?_

_A dark shape emerges from an alleyway, brushing past her on the narrow street. A man, hands dug deep in the pockets of his coat, cap over his eyes. Head down, walking fast. Gathering herself, Mary Ann stumbles after him._

_“Cold night, Sir,” she says. He doesn’t pause._ Rum go, _Mary Ann thinks, but isn’t like trying hurt anyone._

_“Fancy a little warmer?” she calls after him, “I know a place where we can be quite alone,”_

_The man does stop, this time, turning to look at her. The lamplight’s in her eyes: she can’t make out his face._

_“How much?” His voice is hoarse, and he speaks slowly, as if being very careful of his words. Mary Ann feels a rush of relief. She’ll get to her bed tonight after all._

_“You got fourpence?” she asks._

_It’s a steep price for the likes of her but there’s something in the way he holds himself, a tension which makes Mary Ann think he might be more eager for it than she’d have thought before. The man hesitates, then nods slowly, holding out a hand to her. Mary Ann takes it and turns, leading her client into the dark._

 

Sherlock set his tray down on the table opposite Molly with a bang that made Molly’s cutlery rattle on her plate, and the maraschino cherry on top of her cup of trifle give an indignant wobble. He deposited himself in the chair, and leaned towards her, elbows on the table. 

“Seen any interesting bodies recently?”

“I’m reading,” Molly said half-heartedly, gesturing at the novel in her hands.

“You haven’t turned a page in over ten minutes,”

“You’ve been watching me for ten minutes?” Molly tried to sound skeptical, unfortunately she felt the beginning of a blush heating her cheeks. She considered herself largely cured of her crush on Sherlock, nevertheless there was something about the thought of that unrelenting focus, applied to her, that made rational thought fly out of the window …

“You’ve got a brown sauce stain on the corner of the left hand page. Last time you turned it you were part way through the beef bourguignon and judging by the rate of congealment on your plate that was at least fifteen minutes ago,”

Molly sighed. Of course. He’d deduced her. “No interesting bodies,” she said.

“Damn,” Sherlock slumped back in his chair, and began to drum his fingers on the edge of the table. “Any uninteresting bodies?” he asked after a moment.

Molly looked at Sherlock curiously. Sherlock popping up at her workplace and demanding access to corpses was a fairly regular occurrence in her life, but usually only when there was something specific he wanted to investigate. And while Sherlock’s clothes were as immaculate as ever his hair was wild, as if he’d been tugging at it. The fingers drumming on the table sped up, taking on a jittery, agitated rhythm.

“Is something wrong?” Molly asked.

A year ago Molly would have been too in awe of him to ask such a personal question. But a year ago she hadn’t helped the man fake his death, and frankly she thought that gave her a little more of a right to pry.

“Nothing of importance,” Sherlock said, after what Molly knew was far too long a pause for that to really be true.

“Where’s John?” Molly asked.

Sherlock’s eyebrows drew together fractionally. “Flat,” he said. The fingers stopped drumming and withdrew from the table. “With a woman,”

“Ah,” Molly said. “And they chucked you out?”

Sherlock glared at her. “I left of my own accord. It isn’t as if I want to observe their displays of affection.” He wrinkled his nose.

Molly looked at him feeling the confused rush of sympathy, irritation and lurking hurt that was common around Sherlock. 

“You know,” she said. “If you have – feelings - for John – maybe you should just speak to him about it. He might even feel the same way,”

Sherlock stared at her as if she was speaking a foreign language. 

It was at that moment that Molly’s buzzer went off in her pocket, making her start. She picked it up to look at it. 

“Looks like you got your wish,” Molly said, with a regretful look at the trifle cup. “A body just came in.”

 

 

Molly had worked with DI Lane a few times in the past. She was a short, study looking woman, with round pink cheeks and a brisk business-like manner. She nodded at Molly as she entered, and then turned her head to look up at Sherlock, who was hovering over Molly’s shoulder, eyebrows raised.

“This is Sherlock Holmes,” Molly said. “My – colleague. He wants to sit in, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of you,” Lane said, her eyes flicking up and down Sherlock’s body, more with curiousity than hostility, Molly was relieved to see. “Well, if you must,”

“Stay in the corner,” Molly instructed Sherlock. She didn’t mind him being around but she’d learned from experience that having him breathing down her neck was very distracting. To her surprise he obeyed her without a murmur.

Molly moved over to the autopsy table where the body had been laid. It was a woman – in her early forties at a guess, petite, with light brown hair and sightless, open pale blue eyes. Cause of death was no mystery. Her throat had been cut – two wide gashes, the second one so deep is had almost decapitated her. She must have been on the floor when it was done, Molly thought, bent forwards – there was relatively little blood on her clothes, when she ought to have been soaked in the stuff. A half formed bruise marred the skin around her mouth, and chin.

“No ID yet,” Lane said. “She was found by construction workers on Durwood Street early this morning,” 

“Durwood Street,” Molly repeated, frowning. Why did that sound familiar? “That’s in Whitechapel?”

Lane nodded.

“Hmmm,” Molly cast her eyes carefully up and down the body. She’d have to cut the clothes off. She picked up a pair of scissors.

“Who was on forensics?” Sherlock asked, from the corner. 

“Anderson,” Lane said. 

Sherlock let out his breath in a hiss. “He’s missed something. Molly, remove her skirt.”

Molly glanced up at him. He was staring down at the body, expression intensely serious. Molly moved to the victim’s legs. She was wearing a thick shapeless tweed skirt that fell to her calves. As Molly cut into it she realised that the lining was stiff with blood. She pushed back the skirt and Lane made an abortive choking noise. The woman’s midsection was dark with dried blood, gaping open from several deep jagged cuts, exposing the intestines in places. The dank smell of blood and excrement rose up to meet them. 

“Jesus,” Lane said. 

Molly paused. She’d seem a lot of bodies in her time and a fair few that had seen violent ends. But there was something in the deep gaping cuts, the sheer force they must have involved, the brutality of it. It was unlike anything she’d seen before.

And yet….. It was also somehow very, very familiar.

“It looks like the murderer did some rooting around in there,” Sherlock said. He’d moved closer now, angling his head. “Pulled at that portion of intestine. Their hands would have been covered in blood, probably their clothes too. Bold, to engage in such an activities on a public street… I take it you are certain she was killed at the scene?”

“Anderson certainly seemed to think so,”

Sherlock snorted in response to that.

“Right,” Lane said. “I need to have a word with my team. This - this changes things.”

Lane got up to leave. Sherlock drew himself up to his full height. 

“I intend to solve this case for you, Detective Inspector,” 

To her credit, Lane only blinked a few times. “Right, well. I’ll, er, keep you in the loop.” Lane said, with a brief enquiring look at Molly. Molly only shrugged and turned her attention back to the body.

 

They met Lane again in the lab after Molly had concluded the initial examination. 

“There’s not much sign of a struggle,” Molly told them. “There are finger shaped bruises on her neck and under her mouth, so he probably grabbed her around the face before cutting her throat. It would have been quick. She probably didn’t have much time to react.”

Lane’s face was a little pale, her lips were pinched. “And the mutilation… was she alive?”

Molly shook her head. “It was all done post mortem. Confined the lower abdomen. No signs of sexual assault, no evidence of semen, or saliva. No wounds to the upper body.”

Lane huffed out a breath. “That’ll be something to tell the family at least. When we find them, that is. We still haven’t made an ID – there was nothing on her.”

“The victim was a drug addict and had most likely only recently been released from prison,” Sherlock said. Molly looked up at him in surprise. 

“Oh, don’t look like that – surely you noticed the tattoos? And the clothes, ill fitted and ugly most assuredly not her choice. Most likely issued by an institution. I’d check halfway houses for prisoners out on parole if I were you, see who has gone missing.”

“Right,” Lane said, ruffling a hand through her short hair. “Anything else?”

“Nothing else,” Molly said.

Lane nodded briskly and left.

Sherlock was still staring at her.

“What?” she raised her eyebrows at him.

“There is something else,” Sherlock said. “You were on the point of telling her, but you stopped yourself. “ 

“It’s nothing,” Molly said. She hesitated. “I need to look something up. Excuse me.”

She pushed past him and went to open up her laptop. Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something, but was interrupted by his phone buzzing. He opened it and let out a growl. Despite herself, Molly couldn’t help but look up.

“What is it?” 

Sherlock frowned and shoved the phone at her, with a gesture as if the indignity of reading it was too much for him.

The message was from John Watson.

_Kelly’s cooking curry – wants you there. Don’t be an arse, you still owe me ._

“That’s - nice?” Molly ventured.

Sherlock glowered at her. 

“Well,” Molly said. “If you don’t want to go you could just say you were busy.”

“No, I couldn’t,” Sherlock said. “Apparently John thinks that my having lied to him for a few months allows him an indefinite license to emotionally blackmail me.” 

“He still hasn’t forgiven you?” Molly asked.

“Evidently not.”

Molly wasn’t quite sure what to say to that so she returned to the computer and began typing in to the search engine, when all of a sudden, her screen was snapped closed. Sherlock was standing in front of her.

“You can finish that in Baker Street.” 

Molly blinked up at him. “I didn’t think I was invited,”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “A formality. I’m inviting you.”

“I’ve really got a lot of work to do…”

“The lab tests won’t be ready for hours,” Sherlock said. “And you like curry.”

Before she could object, he’d tucked her laptop under his arm and was handing her her coat. Close to, his face was rather pale.

“Is she really that bad?” Molly asked. 

“Execrable,” Sherlock said, and strode to the door. “Come on, I’ll call us a cab.”

 

 

Inside 221B, a smell of spices wafted down from the top floor, and Molly could hear a woman singing, a high clear voice with an unmistakably Irish lilt. Sherlock’s face was grim as he pushed open the door, and the singing stopped mid verse.

“Sherlock!” A small elfin-looking woman with a pretty dimpled face and short dyed crimson hair came in from the kitchen, a smile spreading across her face. “John wasn’t sure you’d come. Oh, and you’ve brought a girl!”

“I’ve brought Molly,” Sherlock snapped, as if that was an important distinction. Molly wondered if she ought to find that flattering or not, and then reminded herself that she wasn’t supposed to care either way.

“Oh, yes of course. John’s told me about you,” She turned to Molly and smiled, dimples deepening, and reached out to shake her hand. “Kelly Morstan. Can I get you a glass of wine?” 

“Better not,” Molly said. “I have to get back to the lab later,” 

Kelly made sympathetic noises, and hustled them along into the kitchen.

“I’ve been working on this curry all afternoon,” she told them. “It’s at a critical stage. I do hope you’re going to eat some this time, Sherlock.”

“I’m on a case,” Sherlock said. “Where’s John?”

“In the shower,” Kelly said. “We had a bit of an accident pulverising onions. I’m sure he’ll be out in a minute. Why don’t you help me with the vegetables?”

“I don’t…” 

To Molly’s amusement, Kelly somehow managed to manoeuvre Sherlock into place by the chopping board, and put a knife in his hand .

“Nonsense, it’s easy. Just – like that yes.” Kelly guided Sherlock’s hands to chop the carrot. Sherlock stiffened noticeably at her touch, but surprisingly, did as he was told. Molly raised her eyebrows – he really must be afraid of losing John.

“Can I help?” Molly asked. 

“No, no… make yourself comfortable. You’re the guest,” Kelly said, and turned back to the pans on the stove, starting to hum again.

Sherlock had left her laptop on the counter, and Molly decided to open it and continue her search.

 

John came in from the shower about ten minutes later. Molly felt a stab of nerves on seeing him – last time they’d met had been shortly after Sherlock’s return, and he’d made his anger at her part in Sherlock’s deception very clear. But, thankfully, there didn’t seem to be any trace of anything but pleasure on his face as he came over to greet her.

“John,” Sherlock’s face lit up on seeing him, and he almost vaulted over the kitchen counter in his anxiousness to get to him. “We have a case. A woman eviscerated,”

“Hey!” Kelly said. She had her hands near the saucepan as if trying to cover an imaginary pair of ears. “No murder talk while there’s food cooking. You’ll curdle the cream. Take it into the living room.”

John leaned over to give Kelly a kiss on the cheek. “This smells amazing.”

Molly glanced at Sherlock and saw him watching the pair intently, face wiped of any expression.

“So it should. And hey, look at what Sherlock’s done with vegetables. They’re practically works of art.”

It was true, Molly noted, looking over. The vegetables had been meticulously diced and arranged by colour into a complex sort of pattern on the plate.

“John,” Sherlock snapped, face still pale. “The murder.”

John sighed and followed him through into the sitting room. Sherlock nudged Molly on the shoulder as he passed, which Molly could only assume was a request to follow him. She glanced at Kelly, who nodded at her. “Go ahead. I’ll be done in a sec.”

Sherlock launched into a description of the dead woman, her injuries and all the details they’d gained from DI Lane. John listened, face grave and a little pale.

“Poor woman.”

“Certainly not the shiny new start one would hope for upon leaving prison,” Sherlock acknowledged. “Molly has a theory about it.”

“I do?” Molly said.

“You’ve been staring at that laptop with your eyes as wide as saucers for the past fifteen minutes,” Sherlock said. “Clearly you have new information.”

John looked at her enquiringly.

Molly took in a breath. “It’s a little out there – but..”

“None of us are getting younger, Molly.” Sherlock said. 

“OK,” Molly said. “OK, just – listen to this one second.” 

She fetched her laptop and opened it, and began to read.

“There was a bruise running along the lower part of the jaw on the right side of the face….There was a circular bruise on the left side of the face. On the left side of the neck, about 1 inch. below the jaw, was an incision about 4 inches in length. On the same side, but an inch below, and commencing about 1 inch in front of it, was a circular incision, which terminated at a point about 3 inches. below the right jaw. That incision completely severed all the tissues down to the vertebrae. ....”

Sherlock frowned at her. “That’s the victim’s autopsy report,” he said. “We know all this already.”

“No – that’s the thing,” Molly said. “It’s not.” 

She turned the screen around. 

“This is the autopsy report of Mary Ann Nichols. She was murdered over a hundred years ago.” 

There was a silence as both men leaned closer to the screen.

“This is a Jack the Ripper murder,” John said, looking up. “You think this is a copycat?”

“I think it could be. She was found in Whitechapel.” Molly said. “Durwood Street. That’s about as close as you can get to the original site of Mary Ann’s death.”

“Who is Jack the Ripper?” Sherlock said.

Both Molly and John turn to stare at him.

“You don’t know who Jack the Ripper is?” John said. 

Sherlock shrugged. “Should I?”

“He’s - Jesus, Sherlock, he’s only the most famous serial killer of all time.”

“Must have deleted it,” said Sherlock.

“You deleted Jack the Ripper,” John repeated in astonishment. “ _You_.”

“I delete all unsolved crimes that occurred before 1895. Historical crimes only exist as a source of frustration. There’s no reliable evidence. No witnesses. Accounts are lost, or forged or garbled. What possible relevance can they have?”

“If I’m right, someone thinks this one has relevance,” Molly pointed out.

Sherlock frowned at her. “All right.” He said. “Jack the Ripper.” He leaned back in his armchair, steepling his fingers, and staring at her. “Tell me everything you know.”

 

 

Kelly called them into the kitchen ten minutes later, and doled out the curry onto plates already heaped with saffron coloured rice. 

“You said the fifth murder was different,” Sherlock said, ignoring the place Kelly had set for him and seating himself cross legged on the kitchen counter instead. “Different in what way?”

“Victimology,” Molly said. “Mary was almost half the age of his other victims – she was young, pretty. She had her own flat, while the rest of Jack’s victims were homeless.”

“A step above his pay grade,”

“You could say that. And he spent longer with the body as well. The level of mutilation was enormous… when he cut off her breasts…”

John cleared his throat loudly. “Can the graphic descriptions wait until after we’ve eaten?”

Molly looked up and saw him looking at Kelly, who was suddenly looking at her food with considerably less enthusiasm. “Sorry. Of course.”

Sherlock made a scoffing noise, but surprisingly didn’t object.

“You seem to know quite a lot about this Ripper stuff, Molly.” John said.

“Oh, well. It was - sort of a hobby of mine when I was a teenager. I fancied myself a bit of a Ripperologist. I used to read up all the old newspaper reports, save up to go visit the crime scenes, that sort of thing.” 

Molly felt her face heating a little. Her rather odd teenaged hobby wasn’t something she usually talked about. Most people didn’t like the idea that, at the age when most girls were putting up posters of boy bands and daydreaming about owning ponies, Molly had spent her time memorising Victorian autopsy reports and having heated email exchanges with conspiracy theorists. To their credit, John’s eyebrows raised only a fraction, and Kelly smiled at her. Sherlock didn’t look like he was listening at all. 

“Anyway,” Molly said weakly, trying to change the subject. She took a bite of the curry – it was delicious: savoury, warm and rich. “This is really good,”

“Oh I’m glad you like it. It’s based it on this dish I learned when I was in Nepal, but I didn’t have all the right ingredients – I had to substitute a few things.”

“It’s fantastic,” John said, smiling at her. Behind John’s head Molly could see Sherlock turn to stare at John, his expression empty.

“So, er, what were you doing in Nepal, Kelly?”

“Working. I work with Liberty, you know, the charity. We advocate for justice within the penal system, prisoners rights, legal representation, opportunities for ex-cons - that sort of thing. Of course, I’m with the London branch now, which is rather a change of pace. It’s interesting, though.”

They spent the rest of the meal chatting about their respective jobs, while Sherlock, clearly disgusted with them all, appropriated Molly’s laptop. 

Molly was just contemplating asking for a second helping, when Sherlock’s phone buzzed. He leapt to his feet. 

“It’s Lestrade. Looks like he’s been put on the case – and they’ve made an ID of the victim.” Sherlock strode into the living room and returned with his and John’s coats.

“I’m still eating, Sherlock. Can’t we…”

“A woman is dead, John. If Molly is correct, others may be in serious danger.” Sherlock stared at John, blue eyes icy. 

“You should go,” Kelly said, breaking the tension. “I’ll put the rest of the curry in the fridge.”

Sherlock clearly took this as permission to pull John to his feet and start to manhandle him into his coat. John was strangely still, allowing Sherlock to manoeuvre him, until Sherlock’s hands reached his shoulders, pulling the jacket straight. Abruptly John reached up, knocking his hands away.

“For God’s sake,” he said. 

Sherlock took a step back. John walked stiffly over to the kitchen counter, picked up a glass of water and drained it.

“All right,” he said, stuffing balled fists into the pockets of his jacket. “I’m ready.”

“I’ll see you at the lab, Molly,” Sherlock said. “I might need to take another look at that body.”

And then with a dramatic flap of Sherlock’s coat, and an apologetic look to Kelly from John, they were gone.

 

Lestrade flicked through the file on his desk, trying to ignore the encroaching headache that was radiating from the back of his head. Funny, how that headache always seemed to return right before a Sherlock Holmes case. Or perhaps not. Some people had old wounds that ached at certain times of year or when it was about to thunder. Lestrade had a headache that mysteriously returned whenever Sherlock was about to waltz back into his office. The message was the same. Trouble coming.

He leafed through the stack of crime scene photos on the desk. _Rachel Hawkins. Aged 43. Conviction for possession of a Class A drug. Picked up multiple times for soliciting. Brutally murdered._

It shouldn’t be his case, Lestrade thought. It wouldn’t be, if it wasn’t for the fact that his superiors were more concerned with grandstanding to the press than they were with actually solving crime. Since his return Sherlock Holmes had been hot property. The newly returned Reichenbach hero, risen from the dead. The public couldn’t get enough of him, and suddenly neither could the metropolitan police. Desperate to salvage their image after they’d been made them look so very foolish, they were drafting him in whenever possible now, bending the rules to accommodate him. Lestrade wouldn’t mind – Sherlock was good, after all, he got things done. But somehow, somewhere along the line, word had got round that Lestrade was the only one who could handle Sherlock: every case Sherlock touched very quickly ended up on Lestrade’s plate. It didn’t seem to have occurred to anyone that Sherlock had lied to Lestrade just as much as he had to anyone else, and apologised just as little, and that perhaps Lestrade didn’t _want_ to work with the bastard anymore.

“Sir,” Donovan tapped on the door to his office. She was standing straight, a gleam of suppressed excitement on her face. “I’ve been going though the CCTV footage of Durwood Street that night. I think I’ve found something.”

 

The CCTV footage was grainy but distinct enough that they could make out the face of Rachel Hawkins, ambling with a slightly unsteady gait, along the street. A lorry went past blocking the view of the camera momentarily, and when they next saw Rachel she was talking to someone. A man, with his back to the camera, hoodie pulled over his hair, hands in the pockets of a studded leather jacket. Rachel tipped back her head, laughing and the man stepped forward, his hand on her arm. They turned and walked off together, disappearing from the view of the camera. 

“Look at the time, Sir. 2.08. Anderson put time of death between 2 and 2.30. This could be our killer.” Donovan said.

Lestrade nodded thoughtfully. “Make copies of that picture,” he said. “Do anything you can to enhance it. Shame we didn’t get his face…. But someone might recognise the jacket. Check CCTV from surrounding area, another camera might have got a clearer glimpse of him. “ 

Donovan nodded, getting to her feet. 

Lestrade blew out a breath, leaning back in his chair, and rubbed his hand though his hair. Well, that was progress, he thought. If they were lucky, they might not need Sherlock Holmes after all.

 

As it turned out, none of the cameras in the area had captured an image of anyone looking like their man – but fortunately, a friend of Rachel’s seemed able to identify him. Rachel Hawkins had had no record of any family members, and little evidence of friends. The only person they’d been able to locate had been her old flatmate and sole visitor in prison, Mellie Banks. DI Lane had reported that Mellie had gone silent for a full ten minutes when informed of her friend’s death, but now she seemed calm enough, though her cheeks were conspicuously smudged with mascara.

“That’s Imran Hussain,” Mellie Banks said, as soon as she’d been shown the photo.

“How can you tell?” Lestrade asked her, gently.

“The jacket. I’d know it anywhere. He’s always wearing it, the bastard.”

Lestrade glanced at Donovan. Not an ID that would stand up in court, but it was a fair enough starting point.

“Was this man – acquainted with Rachel?” Lestrade asked.

“He was her dealer,” Mellie says, lip curling. “Nasty piece of work. Gave Rach a really hard time, ‘fore she went inside, kept saying she owed him money even when she’d paid him back a dozen times over. He knew she didn’t have anyone to look out for her. Well, except me.” Mellie’s eyes filled with tears again. “It’s definitely him,” she said quietly, staring at the picture. “I’d know that jacket anywhere.”

Lestrade turned to Donovan, and gave her a nod. Time to have a word with Mr Hussain.

 

 

They brought in the suspect about the same time as Sherlock and John arrived. Lestrade had to pause for a moment, the peculiar familiarity of the sight giving him a jolt. Sherlock sweeping along in that impossible coat of his, John trudging tolerantly along in his wake. One would think he’d never been gone, never played at being dead for over a year and never nearly got Lestrade fired. 

“Well?” Sherlock said, as he drew up to Lestrade. 

“Well what?” Lestrade said irritably. Sherlock’s eyebrows lifted.

“Clearly you have a suspect. Judging by the smug expression on Donovan’s face she thinks she’s solved it already. Care to fill us in?”

Lestrade let out a sigh, and ushered Sherlock and John into his office.

“It isn’t the dealer,” Sherlock said, as soon as he’d heard the story.

“We’ve got him on CCTV at the scene,” Lestrade pointed out in what he hoped was a reasonable tone of voice.

“You’ve got his jacket,” Sherlock said.

“He’s been positively identified…”

“Dealers don’t murder their customers,” Sherlock said, in clipped tones. “They wouldn’t make much profit if they did.”

“Yeah, and they _never_ turn out to be unreasonable violent thugs.” John said, sceptically.

“The original suspect in the first Jack the Ripper murders was a man named Leather Apron,” Sherlock said. “As you’d know if you’d bothered to research the subject, John. Rather a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“What?” said Lestrade. “What are you on about? Jack the Ripper?”

“Sherlock thinks the murder is a copy cat,” John explained, with a slight eyeroll in Lestrade's direction.

“Actually, it was Molly Hooper’s idea. I suggest you consult her on it.” 

There was a rap on the door, and Donovan entered. “Sir, the suspect’s in the interview room.” Donovan said, ignoring Sherlock and John.

Lestrade sighed and nodded. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“This is absurd, you know that?” he said, after the door swung shut after Sally. “You can’t cry copy cat on a few superficial similarities…”

“On the contrary. The evidence is compelling. Don’t let your lack of imagination blind you to the facts, Lestrade.”

Lestrade gritted his teeth. “You-“

“We can go over the evidence later,” John interrupted. “We should let Lestrade get to his suspect first.”

“Waste of time,” Sherlock said. John shot him a quelling look, and Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut.

 

Imran Hussain was younger then he’d expected, Lestrade thought, looking though the one way window into the evidence room. He was a good looking boy, all said, long dark fringe flopping stylishly over his eyes, and shirt collar up, James Dean Style. He had none of the confidence of the rebel without a cause, though – he sat awkwardly in the chair, worrying away at one of the threads on his shirt sleeve. 

“I want my jacket back.” Hussain said as soon as Lestrade and Donovan entered the room. “It’s bloody freezing in here.”

“Our forensic team wants to take a look at it,” Donovan said. “That’s all right, isn’t it? Or do you have something to hide?”

Hussain opened his mouth and then let it fall shut again. 

Lestrade switched on the interview tape, stating the date and those present. 

“Now, Imran, we just want to ask you a few questions. You are aware you have a right to have a lawyer present?”

Imran twitched in his seat. “I don’t need any lawyers,” he said. “I ain’t done nothing wrong.”

“Where were you last night at two a.m?”

“I dunno,” Imran said. “At home? What is it to you?”

“Do you have anyone who can confirm that?” 

“You want to speak to my fucking teddy bear?”

“Mr Hussain,” Lestrade said, injecting a note of threat into his voice and leaning forward. “A woman has been murdered.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “I didn’t have nothing to do with that. Who said I did?”

“Rachel Hawkins was one of your clients.” Donovan said, “We know you supplied her, we have witnesses saying you threatened her….”

“I never!” The boy said. “She owed me money for a stereo, but I never supplied her with nothing, and I never laid a finger on her neither, I swear.”

“We have CCTV footage showing you at the scene.”

The boy’s mouth fell open.

“Where were you last night at 2 am?” Lestrade repeated. “Think carefully.”

The boy’s eyes darted from Lestrade’s face, to Donovan’s, to the door, desperately. “I – I was at home,” he said.

The door to the interview room swung open abruptly, hitting the back wall and making all three of them jump.

“I’d advise you to tell them the truth, Mr Hussain,” Sherlock’s deep voice reverberated through the interview room. “You’ll save us all a great deal of time and yourself a lot of anguish if you do.”

“Get out.” Donovan said, rising to her feet. 

“I understand you don’t want word getting back to friends and family, but you can be assured of the discretion of the British police,” Sherlock said, ignoring Donovan and fixing his eyes on the boy. “In any case, would you really prefer for them to think of you as a murderer?”

The boy’s eyes dropped to the table.

Lestrade briefly wrestled with the urge to grab Sherlock by the collar of his ridiculous coat and throw him into the corridor, but decided that on balance getting the truth out of the suspect was more important.

“Imran?” he prompted, attempting to inject a note of kindness into his tone.

“I wasn’t at home,” Imran said. “I was with – a friend. His name is Paul Lester. We went to a club.”

“Which club?”

Imran shifted in his chair. “The Hoist. It’s on South Lambeth Road.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows rose. The Hoist was a rather notorious gay bar known for only allowing people in if they were dressed up in rubber or such-like. Imran’s cheeks had flushed dark.

“It isn’t the kind of thing I usually – my dad would go mental if he heard…”

“Don’t worry,” Lestrade said. “We don’t plan on spilling your private business to anyone, not if we can help it. Now, people saw you at this club?”

“Dozens of them, and Paul. I expect some of them’ll remember, I was, uh, I was on a podium for a bit.” The boy seemed to be shrinking into his James Dean collar. Lestrade cast a look at Donovan, who huffed a sigh but nodded.

“We’ll need to check up on that, but in the meantime I think you’re free to go. Don’t go too far, we might need to talk to you again. Detective Sergeant, if you could show him out.”

The boy nodded, relieved and scrambled to his feet, as a scowling Donovan ushered him to the door.

“I told you,” Sherlock said, in a self satisfied tone.

“Yeah, thanks,” Lestrade said, and rubbed his hands over his eyes. “Back to the drawing board, I guess.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock scoffed. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a look at that jacket.” Sherlock turned and swept out of the room. Lestrade watched him go, grimacing. God, he hated it when the bastard was right. He pulled out his phone. He had a mate in Scotland Yard’s archives. Maybe he’d see what he had on Jack the Ripper.


	2. Annie Chapman

_She is a wicked woman: that’s simply a fact.  
She had dreamed of being something different once, when she’d first married. She’d wanted to be a mother like you saw in prints, with big smiles and chubby children dandling on their knees. A mother with a clean apron and floury arms, a lit fire, copper pots and pans that shone to perfection. _

_It had never quite been like that, but they’d been happy for a while, even after little Johnny was born and it became clear he’d never walk. John the elder liked his drink a bit too much so there was never quite as much money around as she’d like, but he was a kind man. He never lifted a finger to her in all the years they were together, not even when she’d failed him so badly._

_And then there had been Emily. Annie never knew what she’d done to be blessed with such a daughter. She was a pretty child, turned heads in the street - god only knew where she got that from, neither she nor John were much to look at. And she was kind – kinder than Annie had known a child could be. She’d been godsend when it came to little Johnny, fed him, bathed him, chatted with him even when none of the other children wanted anything to do with him, and Annie was so run off her feet with work she wanted to scream._

_And then there came that awful day, when Emily came home quiet and complaining of a headache. Before Annie could turn around the girl was on the floor, shaking and puking and choking. She went from being a happy healthy little girl to lifeless figure laying in their bed in a matter of hours._

_After Emily’s death, Annie stopped caring about the floors, and the baking and keeping little Johnny fed and clean. John the elder began to drink more and more, and she joined him. They sat by the hearth and drank and drank as the dishes lay in the sink, the floor grew black. Both of them staring at each other across a dirty kitchen until they couldn’t stand to stare any more._

_John the elder left to find work in the North, and Annie left the remaining children with her sister._

_In London the pressing hurt hasn't faded but it is easier somehow – the world around her is a blank, no longer filled with the lingering impression of her daughter’s face._

_“You’ve other children, you know,” her sister scolds in her letters. Annie knows, and that is what makes her wicked, because sometimes she thinks she’d trade them all for a chance to see her little Emily again._

_Annie turns the coin in her fist over and over again. She’s sent nothing to the kids this month. Somehow when the time comes, she finds the parching thirst over taking her, a widening ache that could only be pushed away by the bottle. And so she walks past the post office and into the tavern, wicked wicked woman that she is._

_She’s only a little in her pocket now: not enough to be worth the sending of, truly. But the guilty sickness deep inside her, when she contemplates returning to the inn and drinking the rest, is too strong. She hesitates. If she can manage to make a little more today… maybe it will be enough to send to her babies._

_She looks about her. There’s a man standing at the corner of the street, back to the wall. Genteely dressed, with a deerstalker hat low over his eyes. Probably got no use for the likes of her, she thinks, and glances back at down the alleyway towards the distant lights of the inn. No, she’ll never be any better if she doesn’t try. Picturing her little Emily’s face she takes a step forward towards the gentleman._

_“Can I help you, Sir?”_

_He turns to her, angle of the head signalling attention. It's a good sign. Annie feels a little bolder._

_“For a penny, I can make you a happy man….”_

 

Molly was woken early by her mobile buzzing on the nightstand by her ear. She hauled herself up into a sitting position to look at the caller ID.

Sherlock.

“There’s been another murder,” he said curtly as soon as she picked up. “Hanbury Street. Come immediately.”

“I don’t do crime scenes,” Molly said.

“I need your input on this one,” said Sherlock. “Come quickly before Anderson contaminates everything.”

 

As Molly arrived on Hanbury Street she nearly collided with a flushed and short of breath John Watson approaching from the opposite direction. He blinked at her.

“I didn’t think you did crime scenes,” he said.

Molly shrugged. “Sherlock wanted me to look at the body.” 

“Oh,” said John. “Oh, right.” 

“If you two are ready,” Sherlock’s voice boomed from the other end of the street.

Lestrade was looking distinctly ruffled when they approached. “He won’t let my team near the crime scene until you two have seen it,” he growled.

“One of your team failed to notice that the last victim had been mutilated,” Sherlock said. “You’ll forgive me if I lack faith. Molly?”

Molly looked at the body, and took in a harsh breath. No one could miss the level of mutilation on this body. The woman’s face was livid, swollen, tongue peeking grotesquely out from between her teeth, and her throat had been cut. Her skirt had been pushed up to expose her abdomen, and the belly slit open, entrails pulled out and tossed over her shoulder, like a particularly revolting scarf. Exactly like Annie Chapman, Molly thought. There was something… a bulge in the abdominal cavity. Molly caught a glimpse of yellow. 

“What,” Molly’s voice sounded a little unsteady, so she cleared her throat and began again. “W-what is that, in her stomach?” 

“Unclear,” Sherlock said, moving closer to the body, his hand outstretched.

“Stop!” John shouted out suddenly. He was at Sherlock’s side in an instant gripping hold of his arm. His face had gone deathly pale.

“John…”

“Both of you, _get back_ ,” he said in a tone that cut through the cool early morning air like shattering glass. Numbly Molly and Sherlock both obeyed him.

“You need to form a perimeter. Move everyone to a safe distance,” John barked at DI Lestrade. “Call bomb disposal.”

Lestrade stared at him.

“You mean….” 

“That’s dynamite,” John said. “There are explosives inside her.”

 

 

They waited on the edge of the perimeter for the bomb squad to declare the area safe. Sherlock was practically vibrating with energy, bouncing on the balls of his feet and staring across as if trying to monitor every action. John, by contrast, had gone very pale and still.

“What are they doing?” Sherlock snarled at last. “I’m sure I could defuse a bomb in less time than this.”

“I hope to God I never see you try,” John said. 

“Unlikely it was ever in danger of going off, stuffed in there among her entrails. It’s symbolic gesture, not an actual threat. The crime scene will be completely contaminated by now by those heavy footed louts. I don’t know why you had to call attention to it.”

John bared his teeth.“Forgive me if I don’t want to see my best friend blown up,”

Sherlock rolled his eyes elaborately. “I’m not an idiot, John”

“You jumped off a _roof_ ,”

Sherlock groaned, tilting his head back to snarl at the sky. “This again. I’ve told you a hundred times...”

“You have, yeah.” John said.

There was a short frosty silence. Molly looked at her shoes, toeing at a loose piece of gravel with her feet and trying very much to look as if she was finding it more interesting than the argument going on around her.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d find it so hard to accept,” Sherlock said, in a low voice. “You seemed to have no trouble at all _moving on._ ”

John swung around, eyes blazing and Molly was rather worried she’d have to break up a fist fight, when Lestrade called to them.

“All right, boys,” Lestrade said, walking over. “They said we’re good to go,”

Sherlock made a grunting noise and pushed past the still furious-looking John to follow Lestrade over to the body.

“Are you all right?” Molly asked.

John blew out a breath. “Yeah. _God_ , he’s a dick,” he gave her a forced smile. “Sorry you got caught in the middle of that.”

“It’s not a problem,” 

John looked over at Sherlock, who was leaning over the body now with a rapt expression, all arguments apparently forgotten.

“Maybe I should just go. You and Sherlock seem to have this one covered,” the note of bitterness in his voice was unmistakeable.

“Neither of us recognised dynamite in her belly.” Molly pointed out.

“Yeah,” John said, but the dark look hadn’t faded from his face.

“You’ve no idea how grumpy he gets when you aren’t around,” Molly said. “Please… for all our sakes.”

John laughed, relaxing a little and stuffed his hands deeper in his pockets. “Yeah, OK,” he said. “I’ll be along in a minute.”

 

There was nothing like explosives in a corpse to make a Detective Inspector’s job a bloody misery, Lestrade reflected. He spent half the sodding afternoon on the phone with counter terrorism, trying to persuade them that the case was better in his (and Sherlock’s) capable hands rather than being crawled over by MI6. In the end Sherlock made what looked like a very sarcastic phone call to his brother and somehow things got sorted. 

Luckily they’d got an ID on the body pretty swiftly this time – the woman had a driving license in her back pocket. Maria Watts, 40. Another one with a hefty file for drugs offenses, including a brief jail sentence a year ago, though apparently she’d been clean since then. She'd been working as a cleaner for the local community centre just down the street from the murder site. It seemed she’d been walking home from work when she’d been attacked.

Lestrade met Sherlock and John in the lab after that, to listen to Molly deliver the results of the autopsy.

“The wounds all resemble accounts of the second Ripper killing,” Molly said, as soon as Lestrade had taken a seat next to John. “A portion of her uterus has been ripped out, and he’s taken her liver. He choked her this time, before cutting her throat, probably with her own scarf. It was lying on the floor next to her. She was dead before anything was done to her. It’s exactly what you’d expect from a copy cat. Except…”

“Except Jack the Ripper didn’t stuff his victims with dynamite,” Lestrade said.

“No,” said Molly.

“So why did he?”

Molly bit her lip. She seemed about to say something, then shook her head. “I don’t know,”

Lestrade’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it. It was Donovan. “Looks like they’ve turned up a witness,” he said. “Someone saw her chatting to a bloke right before she was killed. Coming, boys?” 

Sherlock was on his feet in one fluid movement.

“Of course.”

 

They met the witness, Bessie Small, in the art room of the community centre. She was a short, broad shouldered woman, in her late twenties at a guess, a vest shirt revealing thick well muscled arms, and blonde hair cropped close to her head. She greeted Lestrade with a scowl. “I’ve already spoken to the police.”

“But you haven’t spoken to me,” Sherlock said, smoothly stepping into the room after Lestrade. Ms Small shot him a very unimpressed look.

“There really isn’t anything to say. I was working in the studio late, after class-“

“Rather late to finish work,” Sherlock commented.

“I teach the evening class,” Ms Small said. “It often doesn’t finish til half ten, and then I stayed behind to work on some pieces of my own.”

“What is it you teach?” John asked.

“Pottery,” Sherlock replied before the woman could open her mouth. “Obviously. Look at her elbows.”

John rolled his eyes at Lestrade, but Lestrade didn’t miss the hint of a smile beginning to curl the corner of his mouth. 

The woman glared at Sherlock. “Anyway,” she said. “Like I said, I went out the side door, and I saw that girl, Maria, talking to a man.”

“Do you remember anything about the man?”

Ms Small shrugged. “It was dark. He was tall, I think. Wearing a long coat, and one of those hats with the flaps, you know,” She put her hands by her ears to indicate flaps. “What do they call them? A Sherlock Holmes hat.”

John made a short choked noise, and both Lestrade and Sherlock turned to look at him. John lifted a hand to cover his mouth, shrugging apologetically.

“He was wearing a deerstalker?” Sherlock asked. “Are you sure?”

“Fairly sure. Like I said,” the woman said. “I didn’t take much notice of it. I just – I assumed he was a friend of hers.” A note of guilt had crept into the woman’s tone.

Lestrade gave her his best reassuring smile. “Thanks very much,” he said. “You’ve been a big help. If you remember anything else, please get in touch, I’ll give you my personal number.” He handed over his card.

The woman nodded at him. “Hope you catch the bastard,” she said, gruffly.

 

John’s mobile bleeped as they left the centre. His face brightened a little as he read the message, the lines on his brow smoothing out.

“It’s Kelly,” he said. “Wants to know if I’ll be free tonight. D’you think…”

“Yes, you may as well go,” Sherlock said. “I won’t require you. I need to discuss these developments with Molly. Taxi!” 

Lestrade never ceased to be surprised by Sherlock’s seemingly supernatural ability to call up taxis from seemingly empty streets – for sure enough, a taxi appeared precisely at that moment, and Sherlock swung into it without a backwards glance at either John or Lestrade.

“Nice to see he hasn’t changed,” Lestrade commented to John.

“Is it?” John said. Lestrade noticed he was looking after the taxi with rather a peculiar expression on his face, jaw tense, eyes oddly wary.

“I can give you a lift to the tube, if you like,” Lestrade said. “I’m taking it you don’t have an objection to police cars?”

“Nah, that’d be great,” John said. “Thanks.”

“Things OK, then, between you and Sherlock?” Lestrade asked casually as they settled into their seats. John looked at him enquiringly. “It was a pretty shitty stunt he pulled, especially for you. I’d have been furious. I was furious actually.”

John shrugged. “I was pretty angry for a bit, yeah. But – well, you know. On some level I think I expected it. Even when I believed he was dead, there was always part of me thinking, pretending to be dead, letting us all mourn him – it’s exactly the sort of bloody insensitive thing he would do.”

Lestrade snorted. 

“So, you forgave him, then?”

“I’m still angry. But then, I’m always a bit angry with him. It’s just the way we are.”

“Part of his charm.”

“Yeah,”

“Back to normal then?”

John leaned back in the car seat and sighed slightly, fixing his eyes on the ceiling. “Yeah.”

They drove in silence for a while. “I think that’s the problem really,” John said suddenly. “I went – we all went through - all of that. Grieving and – and you know, thinking. And, - I thought a lot about how things could have been different between us. How I could have done things differently, and that maybe things would have - better. Then I – you know, i got over it, learned to live with the fact that I'd never have things the way I'd thought about. Moved on. Tried to, anyway. And then of course, the arsehole just strolls back into our lives, and things are exactly the same. Makes it all seem like a lot of wasted energy. Why go through all of that if we just end up in the same place as before?”

“Messes with your head, definitely,” Lestrade said. He paused. “What d’you think you’d like to be different then?”

John huffed a half-laugh, and then rubbed a hand over his eyes. “God, I don’t know. You’re right, this whole thing is just driving me round the bend. I’m don’t even know what I’m talking about,” he smiled at Lestrade. Lestrade remembered that smile all too well - it was that broad, particularly charming one John always brought out whenever Sherlock was doing something incredibly dodgy and John was covering for him. Lestrade knew with a certainty that it signalled the end of John’s willingness to talk about this.

“The station’s just up ahead,” Lestrade said. “Jubilee Line OK?”

“Perfect,” John said, hand already on the door handle. “Thanks a bunch.”

“Anytime,” Lestrade said. 

He watched as John scrambled out of his seat and ducked across the street. He never would figure out what was going on with those two, he thought. 

 

Molly straightened, rolling her aching shoulders back. She’d been working without pause since early morning: Sherlock had sent her a long list with extra tests he wanted her to run on the body, most of them rather odd, but Molly was working through them diligently. Lucky that the lab was mostly empty at this time, hard to explain why she was painstakingly staining a slice of the victim’s liver with grape juice. At least that was what she thought, until behind her came the quiet but unmistakable sound of someone clearing their throat. 

Mycroft Holmes, beautifully dressed as ever in a pressed grey suit and saffron coloured tie was standing, at a respectful distance, behind her. Molly blinked. How had she not heard him come in?

“Miss Hooper,” Mycroft said. “Apologies for disturbing you. I can see that you’re busy.”

“Oh no,” said Molly. “Seems about time for a break actually. Fancy a cup of something?”

“You’re very kind,” Mycroft said.

Molly smiled went to the corner of the lab where they had a nook kitchen and kettle. 

“We’ve still only got Tetley’s, I’m afraid,” she said. “Or – there’s instant coffee.”

“Tetley’s would be delightful,” Mycroft said, and perched himself a little awkwardly on one of the lab stools. 

Molly busied herself with filling up the kettle. 

She’d been visited monthly by Mycroft Holmes during the time Sherlock had been dead. His visits had always followed the same pattern: he asked her a courteous but distant set of questions about her own life, told her absolutely nothing about his own and then spent fifteen minutes drinking tea from Molly’s _Pathologists Don’t Do It In The Morgue, What the Hell Is Wrong with you?_ mug. Molly had never been entirely sure why he came, since he never spoke about Sherlock or any of that business. Possibly he was checking that she was still holding her tongue as she’d promised – though he certainly never said anything of the kind. Or maybe he just found comfort in spending a little time with the only other person who knew Sherlock was alive – if so, Molly sympathised. Even if they never talked about it, it was nice to just sit there both quietly knowing, and not having to pretend anything.

Why ever it was he came, she knew for certain it wasn’t for her tea. The muscles around his eyes always tightened a little as he sipped at it, as if trying to repress a wince. It made Molly want to smile. The Holmes brothers both thought they were so much harder to read than they actually were. 

She’d been thinking of getting some fancier tea bags in for his visits, actually, but then Sherlock returned and Mycroft stopped coming to the lab. Well, until today.

“I’m afraid I am here strictly on business, Miss Hooper,” Mycroft said. He paused, picking up a spoon to fish the tea bag out of his mug, carefully squeezing it against therim.

“About the Jack the Ripper case?” Molly wasn’t entirely sure what Mycroft did but from Sherlock’s mutterings she’d inferred it was something to do with the government. It made sense the terrorism aspect would have caught his attention.

“Indeed,” Mycroft said, and sighed. “Jack the Ripper. A name that has an unfortunate habit of igniting paranoia in the good British public. The first time he killed, London was in a state near to riot, and I’m afraid I don’t believe we have grown any more rational. I was hoping that we would be able to keep it out of the press’s attention…..”

“And you won’t be able to?”

Mycroft lifted his briefcase onto the desk in front of his, and clicked it open. He pulled out a paper file which he handed to Molly.

“I have here a copy of a letter sent to the editor-in-chief of the Daily Mail,” he said. “Copied in were the editors of the Sun, the Mirror and the Daily Star.”

Molly opened the file. Inside was a print out of an email, with the subject line _God is Great_. There was no text, only an attached file. Molly turned the page: a screen shot on the opened file. A photograph. Their latest victim, Maria Watts, lying on her back on the Whitechapel pavement, sightless eyes open, and a stick of dynamite clutched to her chest. A handkerchief had been tied around her throat, obscuring the mark where it had been slashed. 

“That photograph was taken before she was mutilated,” Molly said. 

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “It appears that your murderer has entered into a correspondence with the tabloid press. I can’t say I envy his taste.”

“There were letters in the original Ripper case,” Molly said. “To the press, to members of the police force, the neighbourhood watch. Probably hoaxes.”

“In this instance, the correspondent was undoubtedly the same man who committed the murder. Did you note the address the email was sent from?”

Molly flicked the page back to look. _allahakhbar@jihad.org_

“Jihad… so this _is_ some kind of terrorism?”

“Someone is certainly going to some trouble to make us believe so,” Mycroft said.

Molly leaned back in her chair.

“The original Ripper killings,” she said. “Were blamed on the Jewish community. Jewish people were attacked… the police were terrified there would be riots, mass killings. They even destroyed evidence implicating the Jews out of fear that if it were seen it would provoke more violence…”

“Precisely,” Mycroft said. “It appears your killer found Jack’s talent for sowing hatred inspirational. Unfortunately, he’s likely to be successful. Fascinating how little changes about the human psyche, isn’t it?”

“People will blame the Muslim community for the killings,” Molly said. “Can’t you stop them from publishing?”

“Unfortunately not. The trials of having a free press,” Mycroft sounded faintly disapproving. “All I can do is contain the damage. In the mean time, if you could inform my brother that the emails have been traced to an internet café on Pool Street – the address is in the file. I expect he will want to investigate.”

“I’ll tell him,”

Mycroft hesitated. “It would be preferable for this murderer to be caught with as little drama as possible. I know that my brother is unfortunately addicted to spectacle but in this case I’d prefer as little of that as possible. I know I can rely on your discretion.”

“I don’t know if he’d listen to me,” Molly said.

“Nonsense,” Mycroft said, rising to his feet. “I suspect your influence on my brother is more profound than you realise. He is an ungrateful soul, but not unintelligent. He is not incapable of recognising a very good friend when he encounters it.” 

Mycroft’s gaze on her suddenly felt rather intense, but oddly, unlike when Sherlock looked at her, Molly didn't feel the urge to blush and look away. Instead she held his gaze, drawing herself a little straighter.

,

“Thank you,” she said. Mycroft inclined his head to her, and held out a hand to shake hers formally.

“I hope to see you soon, Miss Hooper,” he said. “Under more auspicious circumstances.”

“I hope so too,” Molly said.

 

Molly barely had time to return to her work before the door of the lab banged open and Sherlock appeared. 

“Molly,” he looked around the lab, eyes narrowed. “Mycroft has been here,”

“Yes, he left you a file, on the desk,” Molly said. Sherlock turned to look at her, frowning deeply. For a moment he looked like he was about to say something, but he merely pursed his lips, striding over to the desk where the file was. He leafed through it quickly.

“Your brother thinks he’s trying to provoke some kind of race riot,”

“Predictable,” Sherlock said. He kicked a lab stool out from under the desk and sat on it. “He’s feeding us exactly the evidence that the original Ripper investigation was handed and hoping we will tie ourselves in precisely the same knots. Men wearing leather. Men in deerstalkers. Bloodthirsty minorities. He’s leading us on the same tired old trail and we’re following him. We need to get ahead of him. Do something new. Something different. If only I could _think_.” Sherlock raised his hands, tugging at his hair anxiously. Molly watched him, biting her lip.

“Where’s John?” she asked.

Sherlock’s face seemed to shutter. “With his girlfriend, I expect.”

“Oh,” Molly said.

Sherlock made an odd sort of snort. 

“She seems good for him,” Molly couldn’t seem to stop herself from saying. It was tactless, probably. None of her business. But she couldn’t help being a bit fascinated. Sherlock was never more human with her than when he talked about John.

“ _Good_ ,” Sherlock sneered. “The woman is so dull she won’t even let him talk about dismemberment at the dinner table and so flighty she can’t stick to one hair colour for longer than a fortnight. But she has dimples and sings folk ballads so we are supposed to find her charming.“

“Well, John has you to talk to about – bodies and things.” Molly said. “Doesn’t he?”

“That’s not-“ Sherlock began and stopped, looking away, brow furrowing a little. 

Molly felt a flash of pity for him. “It is hard,” she said. “Having only part of a person when you want more.” 

She thought of all the years that she'd spent storing up those little scraps of interaction with Sherlock, building them into something they weren’t. Something it should have been obvious they would never be.

Sherlock gave her an odd sideways look, a peculiar mixture of contempt and genuine interest.

“You think I’m pining for love of John,” Sherlock stated. Molly flushed a little.

“Aren’t you?”

Sherlock smiled, and it wasn’t a very nice smile. “I’m rather greedier and more selfish than you give me credit for. But supposing it was true - what should a person do, in such a situation?”

“Well," Molly said. " I suppose I'd say you should figure out what you really want first,” Molly said. “And then, once you've done that, you can talk to – to the other person. See if they are interested. Casually at first, you know, ask them for a co- on a date, something like that. At least you’d know if they aren’t interested then, and you could move on. Try to, anyway.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock said. “Interesting.”

Abruptly he got up, sweeping Mycroft’s file into his hands.

“I’m going to this internet café,” he said. “See if I can dig up any more leads. And Molly-“

“Yes?”

“I’d like you to do some thinking about Jack the Ripper. Make a note of everything we know about his next murders. We need to find a way to get ahead of him, and you know the case better than any of those idiots at the Yard.”

“Oh,” Molly said. “Yes, of course.”

“Think very hard, Molly.” Sherlock said. He gave her a long serious look before jumping to his feet and whirling out of the door.

 

Molly was exhausted by the time she got home that evening, her eyes wanted to close of their own accord. She glanced longingly at the very comfy looking bed in the corner of her room, but instead went to the desk, taking her laptop out of her bag and opening it. They needed more information on Jack, and minds better versed in his case than Molly’s. She typed an address into her browser –www.whitechapeljack.org – to her relief the website was still there and, judging by the dates on the forums, still active. Molly had stopped visiting it years ago, too busy to cling to old obsessions. But scrolling down the page and noticing a few familiar names Molly felt a wave of nostalgia. She really felt like she’d belonged here once, among the 18th century murder enthusiasts and want-to-be detectives. 

She clicked on the first topic that seemed relevant ‘ _Lucky Liz – did Jack’s third victim know her killer?_ ’ and began to read.

 

“You seen this morning’s papers, Sir?” Donovan said to Lestrade as soon as he entered the room. Lestrade grimaced. He’d caught sight of the headlines on the way in and it had been enough to give him a very bad feeling about the day ahead. Unfortunately there was no escaping it – there was a stack of papers already on his desk.

 _Two Dead as Islamic Extremists Terrorise Whitechapel_ Brilliant. Even better there was a picture of him at the crime scene talking to John. When the hell was that taken? Lestrade flicked through. A few papers had made the Ripper connection, though thankfully this seemed based on the location of the last two murders and nothing else - they apparently hadn’t weaselled any information out about the mutilations yet. One paper had a vile little cartoon of a man in a prayer cap and with a full beard wielding a knife over a supine woman, entitled _Osama the Ripper?_ Lestrade let the papers fall back onto the desk in disgust.

“Apparently the EDL’s planning a march through Whitechapel already,” Sally said, arms folded. “And the Anti Racism lot are planning a counter march, and the Muslim Brotherhood are talking about going in as well…”

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade said, with feeling.

“Policing that is someone else’s problem,” Sally said grimly. “And I can’t say I envy them. Thing is, Sir, when that happens, the place is going to be swamped with people, journos, protestors… It’s going to be hard to monitor. If he’s looking for a time to strike and get away clean, that might be a good one.”

“According to the Ripper timetable, he’ll go after two women next,” Lestrade said. “The double event.” Lestrade had spent half the night reading up on the case. Two women, Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes had been killed within hours of each other, right under the noses of the police. 

“We can’t let it happen, Sir,” Sally said, her expression steely.

“No,” Lestrade said. “We can’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDL stands for the English Defence League. They are, to put it mildly, a bunch of racist arseholes.


	3. Elizabeth Stride

_Elisabeth walks briskly, head held high. Today, she is an English Lady: Lady Eliza of Hampstead, she owns every step of the land she walks on. Every filthy clod and cobble is hers. Men tip their caps to her as she walks the streets, women curtsey. Tonight she will put on a stiff satin gown trimmed with pearls and place a peacock feather in her hair. She’ll dance with Dukes and Princes. They’ll stare after her, but she will give her heart and hand to no one. She has wealth of her own: she needn’t rely on anything so base as a man to put food in her belly or bruises on her body._

_Elisabeth has always had this talent: been able to think herself into other shoes, to build a new life for herself so vivid and real that she sometimes shocks herself when she comes back to reality. Her current lover thinks she is mad: maybe that is true. If so, madness is sweeter than sanity. Elisabeth can spend months at a time in the skins of her imagined selves. She was Agata, the Swedish noblewoman who lost her fortune and her family in the sinking of the _Princess Alice_ on the Thames: she was Marisa, a beautiful opera singer with men lining the streets merely to look at her, she was a French Princess robbed of her inheritance. Today she imagines herself a woman who never lost her fortune, never found herself penniless on these narrow grubby English streets. Harder to do with the cold creeping up on her, the sky lowering and threatening rain. It is no wonder the English are so very lacking in imagination, Elisabeth thinks. They are always damp. She misses the harder, cleaner cold of her own country, the kind that sneaks in between your ribs and threatens to crack open your chest. At least there you know you are alive._

_A drink, Elisabeth thinks. This is what she needs now. A little something to push this drab English Street out of her vision, let her immerse herself in her imagined life once more. But to buy a drink, of course, one needs money and for money one generally needs a man._

_She looks around her – not too many around, unfortunately. Except – yes, there’s a likely prospect. A man slouches in the doorway watching the world go past. Watching her._

_“Evening, Sir,” Elisabeth always plays up her accent for encounters like these. “Are you wanting a little diversion?”_

_He inclines his head._

_She leads him into Dutfield’s Yard, and his hands are on her as soon as they get inside. He pushes her hard against a fence, raising his hands to her throat._

_“Here,” she says, knocking him back. “Careful.”_

_He takes a step back, eyes suddenly watchful._

_“You ask first,” Elisabeth says.”Or you get nothing from me,”_

_The man simply stares at her, and something about his expression, tense and hungry like an animal, is beginning to jangle Elisabeth’s nerves._

_“Can’t you speak?” she snaps. To her alarm, the man snarls at her, teeth bared._

_“Keep away from me,” she holds a hand out to keep him at the distance._

_She pushes past him, hurrying to the entrance of the yard, but it’s too late. A blow strikes her on the side of her face, leaving her reeling, and suddenly there are arms around her, pulling her back into that stocky body. Briefly she sees the flash of silver before everything goes black.  
_

 

The EDL march took place on the Saturday. It began on Osborn Street and was scheduled to go down Brick Lane. Lestrade and his team arrived early to take up positions along the route, dressed discretely in jeans and worn t-shirts. The idea was to blend in. They had no way of picking the Ripper out of the crowd, of course, but on the plus side, he didn’t have any way of picking them out either.

“You sure about this?” he asked Sally, who had donned a mini skirt and tank top for the occasion, and was slouching on the edge of the street corner, looking every bit the part she was supposed to be playing.

“Best way of identifying the bastard is if he approaches one of us,” Sally said. “No offense, Sir, but I doubt he’ll be interested in you,”

“I’ll be close,” Lestrade said. “Matthews is just a few feet away. Go nowhere without informing us first,”

Sally nodded.

Lestrade could hear the distant thumping of a drum, and the bubble of voices. The march was approaching.

It wasn’t a well ordered affair. The men in front carried cans of beer, and some were already weaving, voices hoarse with shouting. He could hear the sound of glass shattering. Some of their number were quieter though, movements more purposeful. These were the ones to watch, he thought.

“England!” A man bellowed in Lestrade’s face as he passed.

“Right you are, mate,” Lestrade forced himself to say, with a nod. Appeased, the man moved off. Another man tossed a beer can in his direction, foam spattering over his shoes. 

“Oi, watch it!”  
“Don’t get in my way then,” The man said, and looking up Lestrade found himself looking into a face that was very familiar. “Why don’t you march with us, old man? Innit your country, same as it is the rest of us?” 

He’d done something to his hair, Lestrade thought – slicked it so if fell greasily over his eyes. He was holding himself differently, shoulders up as if to make himself look bigger. He’d have thought it would be impossible for Sherlock Posh-boy Holmes to blend in with a crowd like this, but somehow he’d managed it.

“Don’t old man me,” Lestrade said, in an undertone, falling into step with the him. “I’m half French, you know,”

“Wouldn’t say that too loudly,” John said, from behind them. He was wearing jeans and a White Pride t-shirt and looked more uncomfortable than Lestrade had ever seen him which, considering the many bizarre and disturbing things they’d been through in their acquaintance was quite an achievement. 

“WHAT DO WE WANT?” Sherlock suddenly yelled to the people behind him. 

“ _Our country!”_

When do we want it?” Sherlock called. 

“ _Now,_ ” 

“Lacking in poetry,” Sherlock said, more quietly. “Still you can’t deny, it’s catchy,” 

John gave him a queasy look. 

“Any sign of our friend?” Sherlock said. 

“Nothing yet,” Lestrade said. He raised his communicator. 

“Anything to report?” 

“Nothing,” Stebbins replied. 

“Nothing,” Matthews echoed. 

“Donovan?” 

“No go, sir,” 

“Subtle,” Sherlock said. “You’re lucky most of the people surrounding us are morons.“ 

“You don’t think he’s here, then?” Lestrade asked, scanning the crowd again. 

.

Sherlock was silent for a moment. “If he isn’t yet,” he said eventually. “He will be.” 

Lestrade turned back after that, cutting back to patrol through some of the quieter backstreets, before turning back to the main route of the march. The group appeared to have halted, half way up Brick Lane. A row of uniformed police were blocking their way, and behind them, Lestrade saw, another crowd holding banners. The anti racist alliance. Men and women were craning over the police blockade to yell at the opposing march. A thin blue line, indeed, Lestrade thought. 

“All right,” he said into his communicator. “Progress report,” 

“It’s all kicking off here,” Stebbins said. “No sign of our man though,” 

Matthews said. “Nothing here,” 

“Donovan?” 

There was silence at the other end of the line. 

“Donovan?” Lestrade repeated. “Matthews, go and check on her.” 

There was a short silence. 

“She isn’t at her post,” 

“Shit,” 

Lestrade hared up the street to Osborn Street. It was empty in the wake of the march, littered with cans and dropped placards. Matthews was a little further up, looking around. 

“Sir,” he yelled, ducking down an alley. “I think I see something!” 

Lestrade ran after him. 

It was dark in the alleyway, the walls too close. Lestrade’s heart sank as he saw the shape of a body propped against the wall. 

“Sally?” To his relief, the shape moved, staggering to its feet. Donovan stepped towards him, one hand clutching tight at her throat. 

“That way,” she gasped, pointing down the alley. “He’s got - hostage,” 

“Stay with her. Call an ambulance,” Lestrade instructed Matthews and he ran in the direction Donovan had indicated. The alleyway met a chain link fence, and Lestrade could see a car park beyond. Another path, narrow enough that Lestrade almost had to turn sideways to walk along it, cut off to Lestrade’s right. He hesitated. There was no way the killer could have made it over the fence, not with a hostage in tow. Lestrade heard a faint muffled cry in the distance and picked up speed. 

“Oi,” He bellowed at the top of his voice. “Police!” 

The chain link fence ran out and Lestrade turned the corner to find himself standing in a small yard containing a rusted and half disassembled car, various heaps of junk and the cracked concrete floor growing weeds. He stepped forward, only to stop. He could see a woman’s shoe poking out from behind a jumble of debris. He scrambled over to her. The woman was still alive but barely – her eyes were open, blood gushing from the open wound at her throat, and blooming up through the fabric of her shirt. Lestrade pressed his hands over her throat, trying to stem the bleeding.. 

“Co-“ the woman’s lips moved, a frail attempt at speech. 

“It’s OK,” Lestrade said. “Don’t try to talk. You’re OK, an ambulance is coming.” 

The woman’s eyes, pale blue, moved to his face, and she went very still. 

Lestrade could hear footsteps now echoing down the distant alleyway. 

“Here,” he yelled, and in a moment Sherlock appeared, John at his shoulder. John made a noise as soon as he saw the woman, and rushed forward, placing his hands over Lestrade’s. Lestrade was glad to be able to fall back. 

“I think she’s…” 

John nodded his head grimly and sat back on his haunches. “Yeah,” he said. “She’s dead.” 

Sherlock looked around the yard. “There are four directions he could have exited this yard from. That one is most likely. It leads back to Brick Lane. He would have been able to blend in with the crowd again.” 

Lestrade picked up his communicator, “Suspect believed to be heading West, into Brick Lane. All respond.” 

Sherlock shook his head. “They won’t find him,” 

“He must have blood on him,” John said. “He’ll stick out like a sore thumb.” 

Sherlock walked to the exit of the alley and bent over a small leather bundle lying on the ground. Pulling on gloves, he carefully lifted it. 

“Leather jacket,” he commented. “Spattered with blood. He ditched the evidence.” 

He walked back to the body, looking down at it critically. “There’s something on her stomach. John, lift her shirt,” 

John, very gently, pushed the shirt higher. There was a bloody wound cut into the woman’s stomach – it looked like the letter L. 

“He must have done it – before the throat.” Lestrade said. 

“A deviation from the Ripper’s usual method,” Sherlock looked thoughtful. “It was done in a rush. The message must be important to him. “ 

Lestrade’s communicator buzzed. Stebbins. 

“Sir, we’ve got another woman injured,” 

“What?” 

“One of the anti-racism lot on Brick Lane. Collapsed out of nowhere, we’ve got an ambulance coming.” 

“Bloody hell. Don’t let anyone out of that area, do you hear me? No one is to leave.” 

“Think it might already be too late for that, Sir…” 

Swearing, Lestrade got to his feet and stumbled down the alley towards Brick Lane. 


	4. Catherine Eddowes

_The cell door bangs open, striking the wall with a clang. Catherine struggles up, blinking blearily at the policeman framed in the door._

_“Stand up,”_

_She obeys, and the policeman scrutinises her carefully. “All right, you’re free to go,”_

_“Or I could stay here a few hours,” Catherine says. “I was having a nice kip,”_

_The policeman shakes his head. “No room. There’s a hostel on Brewer Street,”_

_“I know there is, love, but I haven’t got no money,”_

_The policeman shrugs. “Sorry. You can’t stay here.”_

_Outside, the rain is dripping from the eaves of the police station, an endless curtain of shifting damp. Catherine huddles into her shawl, tries to think herself somewhere warmer. The hop fields in Kent, with the sun beating down and browning her arms and neck. Working all the sweet summer day, with her man at her side. There was never any need to scrape and save for a bed out there – they’d slept under hay ricks, or in barns, or simply under the stars, arms wrapped around one another, their friends near at hand. But winter and the city separates them, leaching the warmth out of everything, even love. There’s no place that will take the pair of them, wouldn’t be even if they were married. John is in a hostel tonight – he bought a place by selling his boots. He’d wanted to give some to her, but Catherine knew her daughter lived nearby, and surely she’d lend her old mum a penny?_

_She’d forgotten how much Annie hated her these days. She wouldn’t let her in the house even, only talked to her over the threshold. They’d been so close, when Annie was a child: even if Catherine had been in her cups a little too often, she’d loved her kids more than anything. Gave them everything she had._

_But Annie was respectable now, she had a god-fearing husband with a decent wage, and Catherine only reminded her of her past, of what it was to grow up poor and a bastard. She’d hustled Catherine away as fast as she could, pressing a few pennies into her hands as a bribe to keep her away._

_Catherine should have gone to her lodging after that, of course, but the encounter had dampened her spirits, and she needed something to liven her up. Just a drink or two – or several, she supposes, given that she’d ended up in a police cell. She doesn’t remember quite how that happened._

_A man walks by on the other side of the street, his head down, brisk, moving in short jerky movements as if he is having an angry conversation with himself. Catherine shrinks back a little into the doorway, but he sees her anyway. He pauses, staring straight at her, then starts to cross the road._

_Catherine has a knife in her bag, it’s the one she used for cutting hops. She’s heard the stories, of Whitechapel women murdered. To her relief, the man stops, feet away from her._

_“H-ho – huh—h-how much are you,” the man says. He ducks his head a little as he stutters, ashamed, and Catherine relaxes a little. He’s not angry after all, she thinks, just shy, the poor dove. She wasn’t meaning to go looking for a customer tonight, but the money would help. She’d give just about anything for a place to kip for a few hours out of this rain._

_“Two pence,” she says to him and the man nods._

_“I know a place,” he says, and takes her by the hand, into a darkened alleyway. “Lie down on the ground…” he says._

Luckily for their newest victim, paramedics were on the scene and reached her very quickly. They were loading her into the ambulance when Lestrade arrived.

“What happened?” he asked the constable.

Stebbins shook his head. “It was chaos. The EDL lot had started throwing stuff, jostling the uniforms, it looked like a fight was breaking out. And in the middle of this woman screamed, and fell down – it happened so fast. Someone yelled she was bleeding, and she’d been shot and then people just started running. I couldn’t have said who it was that stabbed her – it was just a mob by then. Maybe there’ll be something on the CCTV,”

“We haven’t had much luck with that so far,” Lestrade said. He looked around the now mainly deserted street. “Bloody hell,” he said.

Lestrade headed back to Osborn Street, where he’d left Donovan and Matthews. They were sitting with the Paramedics now, and Sherlock and John had joined them. Donovan was wrapped in a bright orange blanket, and there was a bandage on her throat.

“But you _must_ have got a look at him,” Sherlock was saying.

“I was a bit preoccupied with the knife he was waving in my face, thank you very much,” Donovan snapped at him.

John cleared his throat and gave Sherlock a look, and Sherlock simmered down a little. Lestrade noticed John reach out to brush Sherlock's hand gently with the back of his knuckles. 

“Sally,” Lestrade said. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m all right, Sir. Just got a bit of a nick, that’s all.”

“Perhaps you’d better tell us what happened from the beginning.” John said.

“I was at my post, and I noticed a man and a woman – he was holding her arm, and sort of guiding her into that alleyway. So, I went after them. He’d got her backed against the wall and was looking threatening so I ran towards them. Next thing I knew he’d launched himself at me, knocked me back against the wall, and I hit my head. And then he had a knife at my throat. I tried to shake him off, scratched at his face and the woman – the victim-“ Sally paused here and swallowed. “She hit him with her handbag – distracted him enough that I could break his grip, kick him in the balls. He ran off then, and grabbed the other woman as he went. I tried to follow, but my head….“ Donovan paused. "She saved my life. And now she's dead. I was supposed to be protecting her, not the other way round."

Lestrade shook his head. "You did what you could. And you did well. Threw him off, panicked him. There's no way he meant to attack that last woman in the street like that. Because of you, looks like she'll live."

Sally frowned at him, uncertainly.

“Can you remember anything about his appearance,” Sherlock repeated. “Any small detail, anything that could be helpful?”

“He was wearing a beanie hat, I think, a hoodie. Dark coloured, maybe blue or black. I think he was white– late twenties or early thirties, but. It’s all a bit blurred.”

Sherlock made a dissatisfied sound.

“I scratched him,” Sally repeated, and held out her hand. Lestrade leaned in to look at it. There was blood crusted under the nails.

“That isn’t yours?” Sherlock said. 

“I was careful not to contaminate the evidence,” Donovan said.

A smile broke over Sherlock’s face. “Sally Donovan,” he said and there was a clear note of admiration in his voice. “You’ve caught us some Ripper DNA.”

 

Lestrade reached his office in Scotland Yard again later that afternoon, collapsing wearily into his chair. The first of the day’s victims had been identified fairly swiftly as Brenda Scott, a defense barrister from Putney. What she was doing so far out of her way was a mystery, as according to Family Liaison none of her friends or family thought it likely she’d have been on either march, and she had no current briefs related to Whitechapel.

Their second victim, Priya Kapoor, had been stabbed three times in the back and punctured a lung, though thankfully it looked like she’d recover. According to the nurses, who still wouldn’t let Lestrade’s team anywhere near her, she remembered nothing about the incident.

Lestrade picked up a phone, looking at it. He’d spoken to his superiors and they’d agreed to a media blackout on the subject of Priya’s survival. Their Ripper was clearly determined to match his kill count to his historical counterpart: the last thing they needed was for him to hear he’d failed and go in search of another victim. Still, Lestrade had an idea that the media might need a little extra leaning on to ensure cooperation. As little as he liked bringing in the British Government on his cases, still less yet another lying Holmes, he really might need help on this. He hesitated for a moment, and then with a sigh, dialled the number for Mycroft.

 

Molly sat in the corner of the lab, scrolling through the Ripper website. It was getting late, but she couldn’t go home yet – the body of Brenda Scott was due to come to the lab and Molly wanted to get started as soon as possible. So, she made herself a cup of instant coffee and sat, trying to concentrate on the wavering light of her computer screen.  
The door creaked and Molly looked up. Mycroft Holmes, looking a little awkward, stood in the doorway.

“Apologies for disturbing you,” Mycroft said. “I was passing and I wondered if you would be so good as to give me an update on the case.”

“Of course,” Molly said, relieved at the distraction. She’d loved Ripper research once, when she’d done it at her leisure, but now with so little sleep and such a terrible purpose, trying to absorb all the information and theories at once was rather making her head hurt.

“You’ve heard about the other murder?” 

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft said. “Most unfortunate.”

“I haven’t had a chance to look at the body yet,” Molly said. 

“And anything new gleaned from your researches?”

Molly sighed and shrugged. “It’s hard to know,” she said. “To be honest I don’t really know what I’m looking for,”

“An interesting hobby for a young woman, Ripperology,” Mycroft commented mildly. Molly looked up at him, but he didn’t look amused or disgusted. His head was turned slightly, at a considering angle and his eyes gleamed warmly. He seemed – interested.

“When my father died,” Molly said. “My mother - she found things very difficult. She had sort of a phobia about all that stuff. Dead bodies, and sickness and decay. She wouldn’t go to the hospital in the last days when he was ill, wouldn’t let us go either. And she definitely wouldn’t go near the funeral home. My uncle organised everything. One day he was there and the next he wasn’t. But I wished - I really wished I could have seen him. Seen what he was like, after. I started reading everything I could about death, about what happened to the body afterwards – it was after that I started reading old autopsy reports, and I got fascinated with it – the puzzle of it. That was when I came across Jack the Ripper and I realised, all these other people were interested too.”

“That must have been a comfort,” Mycroft said.

“It was. It drove my mum mad, of course. Still does.”

Mycroft smiled. “I can see why Sherlock likes you,” his voice sounded a little bit sad, Molly thought, though there was no trace of that on his face.

They were silent for a while, as Molly looked down into her coffee cup.

“Who do you think committed the murders?” Mycroft asked. “The historical ones, I mean?”

Molly shook her head. “I don’t think he had a name,” she said. “I mean, not one you’d find in the records. He might be in there somewhere but I don’t think he was ever named as a suspect. He must have been someone who slipped under the radar. He knew Whitechapel so well, and they all knew him so well no one ever saw him. He must have been poor. I think maybe he might have been scarred or disabled in some way.” Molly said.

“Why do you think that?”

“It was raining,” Molly said. “Almost every night when women were killed. And they were mostly homeless women, desperate for a bit of cash so they could get inside. On a night like that they would have approached any man they saw.”

“So, our man was not attractive to women,”

“He believed he wasn’t, anyway,” Molly said. “He’d never be able approach a woman himself – not in the beginning anyway. They came to him.”

“Rather a pathetic figure.”

“I don’t feel sorry for him,” Molly said. “He might have had it hard but those women – they had it worse. Homeless and walking the streets. You couldn’t get any lower. And the things he did to them.”

“And is your modern Ripper like that, do you think?”

“No,” Molly frowned at him. “Not really. I think he’s-“

The door banged open and Sherlock strode in. He stopped short when he saw Mycroft, sitting at the desk. “What are you doing here?”

Mycroft got to his feet. “Merely touching base,” he said. “You know I like to keep track of your activities, especially when they involve explosives and radical organisations.”

Sherlock glared at him. “I have things perfectly under control,” 

“So I can see,” Mycroft raised one eyebrow. “Though, a word of caution. Do make sure you utilise all the resources under your control, won’t you?”

Mycroft shot a quick glance at Molly and left. 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, following Mycroft out of the room.

“You need to be careful, Molly,” He snapped. “Despite what he might like you to believe Mycroft is not a sound romantic prospect.”

“What?” said Molly, staring at him. “Mycroft’s not –… we aren’t.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes elaborately. “Have you not noticed his fixation on you? Coming around here and ‘having tea’. How often do you think he does that?” 

Molly felt her face flood with heat. “He was checking in on the case,”

Sherlock snorted. “If that was all it was he would have called me, or had John abducted again. Much more convenient. No, he came here, despite the fact that Barts is miles out of his way and contains all kinds of substances that would have a deleterious effect in the came in contact with his suit jacket - to see you..”

“Oh,” Molly said. “Oh -I didn’t,”

“Well don’t,” Sherlock said.

Molly stared at him, her embarrassment fading and a very different emotion starting to take it’s place.

“You don’t have the right to tell me who I can and can’t date!” she said.

“He’s my brother,” Sherlock said. 

“You’re both grownups,” Molly said. “Would you like it if he said you couldn’t see John?”

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock snapped. He folded his arms for a moment, scowling, and then shook his head. 

“Brenda Scott had a letter L carved in to her stomach,” he said tightly. For a moment Molly thought it was an accusation directed at her, but then she realised he was returning to the case. “Does that mean anything to you?”

Molly considered. “Elizabeth Stride is sometimes called Lucky Liz,” she said. “She was the only one of the victims who wasn’t mutilated – probably because Jack was interrupted before he finished the job. Probably why he was in such a hurry to find a second victim that night.”

“But the Ripper’s mutilations were all done post mortem,” Sherlock said. “I fail to see how not having her body interfered with after death would be of any benefit,”

Molly shrugged. “Historians are strange creatures,”

Sherlock was silent for moment. “It doesn’t make sense. If Elisabeth was lucky for remaining unmutilated, then Brenda Scott was blatantly not – the killer did mutilate her by cutting an L on her.”

“The L could be for liar,” Molly said. “Elisabeth Stride was known for telling tall tales, a bit. She told her neighbours her children had died in a shipwreck, for example, when in fact she’d never had any.”

“That is a message with some passion behind it,” Sherlock said. “Enough to risk capture to cut. And yet – it has to be more than that.” He raised his steepled hands to his mouth, deep in thought.

“I’ve been looking at some websites,” Molly said. “My old Ripperology haunts. Refreshing my memory, trying to put together some theories.”

“Hmm,” said Sherlock, bent to look at her computer. “I haven’t seen this site before,”

“It’s a small message board, but I think it’s the best. A lot of serious people – academic, you know, thoughtful. Not just in it for the sensationalism.”

“I wonder,” said Sherlock. 

“What?”

“It’s always possible our murderer is a member of one of these sites. He is an enthusiast, after all.”

“Oh,” said Molly. “I hadn’t thought of that,”

“I’ll have a look in my own time,” Sherlock said. “How about some coffee?”

“Make it yourself,” Molly said, and was a little bit pleased to see the look of surprise on Sherlock’s face.

 

Lestrade was in his office, flicking through the file on Brenda Scott. Why her? Lestrade wondered. She didn’t fit the profile. She wasn’t a drug addict, wasn’t an ex-con, wasn’t down and out. She didn’t seem to be a victim of opportunity either. What on earth had she been doing at that protest?

Abruptly, his phone began to buzz. He picked it up, frowning. Caller ID said DI Lane. Odd, Lestrade thought. He hadn’t heard from her since she’d handed over the case to him.  
“DI Lestrade,” Lane’s voice sounded rather breathier than her usual matter of fact tones. Lestrade immediately straightened, on alert.

“Lane. Are you all right?”

“Sir,” Lane said. “I’ve received a suspicious package. It looks like a human body part. And there’s a note I think – I think it’s from the Whitechapel killer,”

Lestrade drew in a breath. “I’m on my way,” he said. “Address?”

 

The package in question was a white box, tied with a violet ribbon and lined with delicate looking white tissue paper. In the middle of it was a lump of flesh – staining the paper beneath it.

“My wife opened it,” Lane said. “Didn’t know what it was at first, thought it was a joke, but then I realised.”

“You said there was a note?”

Lane pointed to the lid of the box. Putting on gloves, Lestrade lifted it carefully to read the note.  
 __  
Missus Lane,  
Sorry to hear you lost your job. Must have been fun for you, trying to find who chopped up them girls. I was looking forward to working with you. Still, there’s time for you to get in on the game – I’m not finished yet and Ripping is so much fun. Soon you’ll have something real special to tuck into. So to speak, of course. Though matter of fact you might want to try tucking in. This is the last bitch’s kidney – I’ve had some of it already. It goes down a treat with a béarnaise sauce. I send it to you as a token of my esteem, and hopes that you’ll be admiring my handiwork again soon.  
Catch me if you can,  
Jack

Lestrade met with Sherlock, John and Molly in Baker Street to discuss the new evidence.

“He’s all over the place,” Sherlock said, once he’d had a chance to read the note. “Deliberate grammar errors, no doubt trying to ape the original style of the Lusk Kidney letter, mixed in with some very middle class turns of phrase.”

“The original letter was probably also faked,” Molly said. “The kidney probably didn’t belong to Jack’s victim – More likely a medical student with too much time on their hands,”  
Sherlock turned to look at her. 

“The consensus is, these days, that Jack probably didn’t write any of the letters that have been attributed to him. The media circus surrounding the killings brought out a lot of attention seekers,”

“Something for us to look forward to, no doubt,” Lestrade muttered.

“Makes for a good story though,” John said. “Body parts in the mail, cannibal killers. I’m surprised he didn’t mention fava beans and chianti,”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, eyes widening slightly as he looked into the distance. “ _Yes_ , that’s it precisely, well done John.”

“Um, thanks,” John said, “What did I do?”

“Don’t you see? We’re been looking at this problem from completely the wrong perspective. We’ve been looking at a murderer who is following in the footsteps of Jack the Ripper, yes? A copycat?”

“Well yeah….” Lestrade said. “That is pretty much the whole point.”

“But our murderer isn’t a historian. He isn’t slavishly following in the footsteps of the master criminal: he’s picking and choosing the parts that suit him, he’s embellishing, he’s using the Ripper to tell a story. His story. The dynamite, the selection of victims, the message on Scott’s stomach - all of it. He’s trying to say something, something quite specific. How did Jack the Ripper select his victims, Molly?”

“Well,” Molly said. “He didn’t, probably. They were all prostitutes, they would have been accosting men on the street – it was pure chance.”

“But this wasn’t. Brenda Scott, at least, certainly wasn’t,” Sherlock said. “Our Ripper isn’t killing simply to slake his lust. There is to be a reasoning behind it… Lestrade, bring me the files on all of the victims again. There has to be something we missed….”

 

Lestrade had the files brought over to Baker Street that afternoon – a copy each for each of them. John sat on his chair, going through each one by one, Sherlock was standing, files spread over the kitchen table so he could looks at them all simultaneously. Lestrade was on the sofa, sitting forward and glaring at his and Molly curled up on cushion on the floor.

Molly peered at the dense sheets of text, wishing she knew what she was looking for, but Sherlock had refused to provide any guidance. “Fresh eyes,” was all he said.

The night wore on, and Lestrade got up to make them all coffee. Molly’s head was pounding. She’d had very little sleep since this case began. She wondered how John and Sherlock managed to do this all the time. 

There was a light tap on the door, and Kelly peeked her head around it. Her hair had changed, Molly noted – it was a vivid peacock blue now.

“Sorry to disturb,” she said. “I think I left my keycard for the office here the other night,” 

“On the bedside table, under the jar with the badger foetus,” Sherlock said without looking up.

“I’ll get it,” John said, jumping up and disappearing off into the adjoining room. 

“Not there!” he yelled back. 

“Hmm? Must have fallen behind. Do be careful, I might have some old experiments back there.”

“Bloody hell, Sherlock,” John’s muffled voice said. 

Kelly had moved over to the table where Sherlock was sitting, looking over his shoulder.

“Priya Kapoor?” she said, in surprise.

Sherlock turned to look at her sharply. “Yes, do you know her?”

“Yeah she’s – she’s a volunteer with our company. Is she all right?” 

“She was attacked,” said Sherlock. “Although I wouldn’t pass that on if I were you.”

“Poor Priya, that’s horrible.”

“You’re company advocates for the rights of prisoner’s, doesn’t it?” Sherlock said. “What exactly was Priya’s role?”

“She ran skills classes. Arts and crafts, that sort of thing. Helping people get back into work. Oh, god.” 

Sherlock was on his feet immediately. “Do you recognise any of these other names?” he said passing her a list. Kelly’s eyes passed down it, but she shook her head.

“Sorry,” 

Sherlock looked up at Lestrade and Molly, an expression of grim satisfaction on his face. 

“You see?” he said. 

“The first two victims were fresh out of prison,” Lestrade said. “The third was a defense lawyer and the fourth works for a prisoner’s charity.”

“Our murderer has a bone to pick with the justice system, it seems.” Sherlock turned to look at Kelly, who was watching the conversation looking mildly bewildered. “I’ll need the list of all Ms Kapoor’s past clients,” he said. 

“I’ll speak to my boss…” 

“Don’t bother,” Sherlock said. “Hacking into your database will be much quicker,”

“Sherlock!” said Lestrade. “I did not just hear that.” 

“Of course you didn’t.” Sherlock said. “Pass me my laptop, will you? It’s under the sofa,” Lestrade obeyed reluctantly, muttering something about aiding and abetting. 

John re-emerged from the side room, holding a card gingerly by its edge.

“I’d give it a wash if I were you,” 

“Thanks, love,” Kelly gave John a swift kiss, and then went to run the card under the tap. 

“Who designs a database for a prisoner’s charity and set’s the password as _break the chains_?” Sherlock said irritably, as he tapped away at his laptop. “They could at least try to make it difficult.”

Kelly glanced at her watch. “I’d better run. Good luck, er, hacking us,” she placed a hand lightly on Sherlock’s arm and to Molly’s surprise he turned his head giving her an absent minded kiss on the mouth. Molly looked at John, who was watching them both with a rather fond look on his face.

“Ta-ta, guys,” Kelly said breezily, and with a final blown kiss to John, she left. Molly looked at Lestrade who returned the glance with a very eloquent ‘it’s not just me right, that was weird?’ lift to eyebrows.

“Oh, don’t look surprised,” Sherlock said without looking up. “I refuse to believe you, at least Detective Inspector, have never encountered a polyamorous relationship in your life before,”

“Sherlock!” John said who was a little pink now, but still smiling.

“A-ha,” Sherlock said softly.

“What?” John said, moving closer. “What is it?”

“Bessie Small,” Sherlock said. “Witness to the second murder. Five years ago, she took an arts and crafts class with Ms Kapoor. Must have been a successful one since she’s now teaching herself.”

“But Bessie Small doesn’t have a criminal record,” said Lestrade. “We check that sort of thing, it would have been flagged up.”

“These people thought she did,” Sherlock said. “I think you’d better double check, Detective Inspector.”

As it turned out, Bessie Small did not have a criminal record – nor did she have any records of her existence dating back more than five years. No national insurance, no credit card transactions, nothing but a birth certificate that, upon further investigation, appeared to belong to a child who’d died of leukaemia in St Walburga’s hospital in 1992. 

“Bessie Small doesn’t exist,” Sherlock said. “The only question is, is she our murderer?”

“Could the Ripper be a woman?” John asked. 

“Arthur Conan Doyle thought the historical Ripper might be,” Molly said. “’Jill the Ripper. It would explain why no one noticed anything, why the women went into secluded places willingly, even after the murders had been publicised everywhere. She wouldn’t have been seen as a threat,”

“There you are, a historical precedent,” said Sherlock. “Besides, did you see the muscles on Ms Small? I’d wager she is as physically capable as any of us. In any case, it’s enough justification for us to pay her a visit, don’t you think, Lestrade?”

 

The address given for Bessie Small was a tiny apartment above a chip shop in Aldgate East. No one answered the door after Lestrade’s repeated presses of the bell. Sherlock elbowed him out of the way, taking a wallet out of his pocket, which seemed to contain several delicate silver tools.

“What are you doing?”

“Picking the lock. Take a little walk, Detective Inspector, if it bothers you.” Sherlock slotted something that looked like a flattened silver pin into the lock.

“We need a warrant, you can’t…”

“A warrant takes time, our murderer could be starting on their fifth victim at any moment,” 

The lock gave a small click, and the door swung open. Sherlock waved them in with a very sarcastic arm movement. Molly saw Lestrade hesitate briefly, but then taking a deep breath like someone about to plunge underwater, he followed John inside.

The flat was completely empty. Not just empty, it had been stripped bare. Nothing but echoing rooms and empty cupboards. There was a bedframe, but the mattress had been removed.

Lestrade whistled. “Doesn’t look like it’s been lived in for months,”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock said, bending down to examine a little heap of dust in a corner. “A week, more likely. Whoever was here before was determined to leave nothing behind them though. I’d wager everything has been scrubbed with bleach.”

Molly went into the kitchen, opening cupboards at random. Nothing in any of them except….

“Hey,” she called out to the others. “Look at this.”

Taped to the back of the cupboard there was one small crumpled looking polaroid photo. Sherlock picked it out with gloved hands and they call craned to look.  
The photo showed a family scene, three children standing in front of a Christmas tree. The little girl, who looked to be about ten years old, was smiling at the camera, and holding a newborn baby in her arms. Next to her a boy, a little shorter than the girl, grinned through gap teeth.

Sherlock turned over the photo. On the back were three words: _we were wrong._

“That little girl,” said Lestrade. “I swear I’ve seen her before.”

“You have,” said Sherlock quietly, looking at the photo with an expression a little like awe. “That’s Connie Cambridge.”

“Connie – who?” John asked. 

Molly wrinkled her brow. The name sounded familiar.

“Connie Cambridge, the child murderer. Before the Bulger case, before Madelyn Clifton, before Columbine, Connie Cambridge was the big scandal. At twelve years old, she murdered her two year old half-brother by stabbing him repeatedly with a kitchen knife, and later confessed to her Bible study teacher. She was sentenced to life in prison, but given she was a child at the time, well, I expect she was declared eligible for parole about, oh, about five years ago? I imagine she was given a shiny new name to protect her, fresh from the birth certificate of a dead child.”

“Christ,” said Lestrade. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“So, wait. She gets out of prison, waits five years and then starts murdering people again?” John said.

Sherlock made a grunting noise and then moved to the window, holding the picture, and the sellotape attached to it up to the light. Molly gasped. Attached to it was a single fair hair.

Sherlock carefully pulled the hair off the sellotape with his gloved fingers.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Let’s see if she’s a DNA match.”

 

Molly took the sample to Barts to be processed and Lestrade headed back to his office. The records on Connie Cambridge were all restricted, but he was able to get hold of them after a few phone calls to the relevant people. Sherlock was right: she’d been released after ten years of exemplary behaviour in custody, and by all accounts lived the life of an ideal parolee. Her parole officer met with her monthly now, and was flabbergasted to hear she’d disappeared. Her employers at the community centre hadn’t seen anything of her for a week. 

It was like she’d vanished off the face of the planet. 

Lestrade leafed through the information he’d gathered. Now he knew who Cambridge was, he could see that all of their victims were connected to her: Priya Kapoor, who’d taught her. Rachel Hawkins and Maria Watts who’d served time at the same prison. Brenda Scott, who’d been on her defence counsel. _Liar._ Lestrade wondered if she hadn’t done a good enough job.

There didn’t seem to be much more to be done for the night, so Lestrade got a few too brief hours of shut eye, before heading back to Baker Street in the early morning.  
It was clear Sherlock hadn’t slept at all, but had been pacing back and forth, his hair wild. John was at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and looking rather bleary.

Molly texted at eight, saying she had the results and was coming over to Baker Street. She arrived soon after, looking pink and out of breath.

“What do you want first: the bad news, the good news, or the weird news?” Molly asked.

“Bad news,” Sherlock said immediately.

“The DNA wasn’t a match. Connie Cambridge isn’t our killer. But,” Molly pulled out a folder and laid out two read outs side by side. “She is _almost_ a match. Whoever attacked Sally, and killed those women is very closely related to Connie Cambridge,”

“And the weird news?” said John.

“I was looking at that website again – what you said about the Connie Cambridge murder reminded me of something, so I went back through the archives – a few years ago, there was a poster on that website, he called himself Saville. He was a bit of a crackpot – kept talking about what would happen if Jack the Ripper was reincarnated. He insisted that all great killers were immortal, and would return to earth to kill again. The weird thing is he used the Connie Cambridge case as an example – he insisted that Connie was a reincarnation of Constance Kent, a Victorian girl who killed her little brother and dumped his body in a privy.”

“Thing is,” Molly continued. “I’ve read about this case. Constance Kent was only caught because she owned up to the murder years after the event – but a lot of people didn’t believe her. They said it didn’t add up, that a young girl could have carried the child all the way to the privy by herself, that she could have stabbed him. A lot of people thought perhaps she was protecting someone else. Some people thought it was her father, but others said it was her brother, William. Brother and sister were reported to have been very close – peculiarly so, some might say.”

“Connie Cambridge had a younger brother,” John said. “We saw him in the photo.”

“Exactly,” Molly said. “What if the brother, the forum crackpot and our killer are the same person?”

“ _We were wrong_ ,” Sherlock said. “She left that photo in her flat as a deliberate message to him. She knew what he was doing – it was her way of trying to persuade him to stop. Lestrade,” he said, drawing himself up. “What information can you get us about the Cambridge boy?”

A few hasty phone calls and Lestrade ascertained that little Dylan Cambridge now went by the name of Alfred Savington and worked as a manager in an antique book shop in Aldgate. He hadn’t come into work that morning. Lestrade took down his address.

“Yoo-hoo,” Mrs Hudson tapped on the doorframe. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but you’ve just had a letter. It came recorded delivery, looks rather important, so I thought I’d bring it up.”

“Thank you,” John opened the letter and froze immediately.

“What?” said Sherlock. “What is it?”

“It’s-“ John said, and Sherlock stepped forward, taking the letter out of his hands.

“ _Dear Boss_ ,” Sherlock read aloud. “ _What a funny game we’ve played. It’s nearly over now, but I just wanted to say what fun I’ve had, watching you go all after me. Not bucked me yet, have you? I am down on whores, just like he was, and now I’ve caught a nice juicy one. I’d say she’s the best of the bunch. What do you say about a little bitch who fucks two men at once, and then spends her day helping get junkies and whores back on the streets? I’d say she’s just perfect. I am so looking forward to seeing little Kelly Morstan scream. See you in hell, Jack._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to my googlings, DNA tests in themselves only take hours, the bureaucracy of shipping things back and force takes weeks. I’m a little dubious about that, but for the purpose of this story, DNA tests take hours.
> 
> Constance Kent, the Rode Hill murderess, has been put forward (rather spuriously) as one of the many suspects for the original Jack the Ripper murders, mainly based on the similarity between the stabbings and the wounds she inflicted on her baby brother. It is extremely unlikely either she or her brother were actually involved, especially given that she is recorded as having moved to Australia some years previously.
> 
> I’ve always found the story of Constance Kent intriguing, not only because she committed a horrifying murder and got away with it, but also because she later owned up to it, apparently entirely out of her own free will. I think she must have been quite a character. If you like historical murder mysteries Kate Summerscale's _The Suspicions of Mr Whicher_ does a great job of detailing the case.
> 
> The two Ripper letters are based on letters received by people involved in the original case. You can read them here:http://www.casebook.org/ripper_letters/ if you are interested.


	5. Mary Jane Kelly

_Mary leans back, taking a deep draft of gin. God, but she’d needed this. She’s been having one of her black days, when anger creeps out from the dark place behind her bed and settles itself on her chest, a paralysing weight. Drink doesn’t make the feeling go away, but it changes it, makes it fluid, moveable. Gives Mary a kind of buzzing quicksilver energy. She can laugh and talk again, she can storm and shout and rage. So much better than feeling as if the weight of all the unfairness in the world is crushing her into the floor where she stands._

_“Oi, careful, I pay for those,” she says to her customer, as he feeds yet another log to the fire._

_He’s strange, this one. Came home with her, paid her well already, even bought her a bottle of porter on the way, but he hasn’t touched her yet. He seems more preoccupied with building up the fire._

_“I’ll l-leave the money for them,” The man says. “I want it bright. I want to see you.”_

_Mary sighs, and waits. She wants to sing, but she doesn’t know if the man will like it. She’s a good singer. Good at everything she turns her hand to, really. They’d all hoped great things of her once. So pretty and so clever. She was supposed to marry high, live happily ever. Well she had married high, high for the likes of her, anyway. Timothy Balkins, a shopkeeper and generally respectable man about town. Respectable means nothing behind closed doors, Mary found that out quite quickly. The man was cruel in a way few men, even in this sweltering hellhole of a city, were cruel. Mary ran away after two weeks. Lost her good name, and anything else that might once have brought her above herself. No matter. This life was better than chasing a phantom of wealth and respectability. She had her own little flat, broken windows and locks notwithstanding. Her pretty face found her company whenever she wanted, food and drink besides. Not a bad old life, barring a few odd ducks._

_Few women round here have it so good. No need for a man in her life, not one who stays longer than a night in any case. Her own little room, with her own little fire burning. Only thing is, when she thinks about the life she’s had, and the life she could have had, she gets so very chokingly angry._

_“You’re roasting me,” Mary laughs at the man who ignores her. “I’ll have to take off my dress.”_

_The man says nothing, and Mary hopes he won’t be here all night. Putting down her bottle, she starts to undo her dress. That ought to get his attention. Sure enough, the man turns to her, eyes gleaming in the molten light of the fire. He watches her as she steps out of her clothes, his hand shifting to the pocket of his jacket._

_“Well, do you like me?”_

_The man doesn’t smile, but takes a step towards her._

_“On the bed,” Is all he says._

_Mary does as she’s told, glad he’s getting round to it at last. It will all be over, she thinks, leaning back, very soon._

“Kelly,” John said frantically into his phone. “For god’s sake, pick up,” 

They were in a taxi, heading for Alfred Savington’s house. John had been calling Kelly ceaselessly for the past fifteen minutes, but she wasn’t answering. Eventually John stuffed the phone back in his pocket, jaw clenched. 

“We’ll be too late,” he said. “Won’t we?” 

“Jack took his time with the last victim,” Molly said. “Maybe….” She trailed off into silence. Sherlock was in the front seat with the driver, staring straight ahead. John sank into his jacket, expression grim. Molly looked at Lestrade helplessly. 

“Almost there,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. 

Alfred Savington’s house was in Bethnal Green– it was surprisingly large for a bookshop manager, set back from the street, with a neat front garden, rose bushes surrounding a tablecloth sized lawn. Lestrade radioed for back up, as Sherlock went up to the door and picked the lock. For once Lestrade didn’t object. No warrant. No time. 

Inside the house was very quiet. They spread out, Sherlock with John and Lestrade with Molly, checking the rooms one by one. They were all empty. 

“There’s something down the bottom of the garden,” Molly said, approaching a set of French windows in the back room. “Some kind of outhouse… I think there’s someone inside, there’s smoke coming out of the chimney.” 

Lestrade signalled to Sherlock and John, and they joined Molly, looking out over the garden. 

“You and Molly approach from the left, try and get in that way,” Sherlock said in a low voice. “John and I will go to the right." 

The outhouse was a squat windowless concrete building at the bottom of the garden. It reminded Lestrade of the nuclear bunker his paranoid Uncle had built during the Cold War. There was no sound emanating from the building either. He and Molly crept around the edge of the garden towards it in eerie silence. 

As they got closer, Lestrade could see the door, steel coloured against grey concrete. Yale padlock. Luckily, Sherlock wasn’t the only one who knew how to pick a lock. 

Once the door clicked open, Lestrade took Molly’s hand and they snuck through it. Heat hit them like a slap in the face as soon as they got inside, making Lestrade wince and stumble momentarily back. The room smelled of burning meat. It was dark, the only light coming from the red blaze of a furnace at the other end of the room. In the red and flickering light Lestrade could make out a long table, and a glimmer of pale skin. They edged closer, and Molly pulled out her phone, casting a greenish light on the scene. 

Kelly Morstan lay, still as a statue, on the table. There was a smudge of blood at her temple, but thankfully she looked otherwise uninjured. Molly moved forwards to feel for a pulse. 

“She’s alive,” she said, in a relieved voice.

Lestrade moved a few steps towards the red light of the fire. Closer to, he could see that the furnace door was hanging open. On the floor, underneath it, was a man’s shoe.  
Sherlock and John burst in through the door, moments later. 

“Kelly!” John called out, rushing over to her, and bending to take a look at her wound. 

Sherlock approached Lestrade, face looming pale in the dark room. 

“No sign of the Ripper,” Lestrade said. “Maybe he ran for it.” 

Sherlock looked from the shoe on the ground, to the furnace. Pulling out his phone, he cast the blue light on the floor. There was a dark stain in the corner, like blood. 

“There was a struggle here. Somebody bled considerably – and it wasn’t Miss Morstan.” 

“You think the sister came after him?” 

Sherlock turned to look at the furnace, pale eyes gleaming thoughtfully in the firelight. “Perhaps he didn’t leave this room, after all.” 

Kelly regained consciousness in the ambulance, which was a relief. Molly couldn’t imagine how awful it would be to wake up in that awful fiery barbeque-smelling room. Hell hardly covered it. 

The police were searching the area with a fine tooth comb but so far no sign had been found of Alfred Savington or his sister. 

“Do you think it really was him, in the fire?” Molly asked, as they sat together in the hospital waiting room. 

“We’ll have to wait for forensics,” Lestrade said. 

“Poetic justice,” Sherlock said. “The Ripper built a great fire when he killed Mary Kelly. It was burning with a suffocating heat hours after he left. This time the fire claimed him.” 

John frowned at him. “You’re talking as if all that stuff from the website was true. Victorians criminals don’t reincarnate themselves in modern people. He isn’t the same man.” 

“A compelling idea, though,” Sherlock said. “Isn’t it?” 

At that point a nurse approached them. “Ms Morstan can see you now,” 

John and Sherlock both rose to their feet, following her into the adjoining room. 

“Well,” Lestrade said. “I’d better be getting back. Positively mountains of paperwork to be getting on with, you know,” 

“Yeah,” said Molly, looking back into the room, where John and Sherlock were stood by Kelly’s bed. As she watched, Sherlock dropped abruptly to his knees burying his head in Kelly’s blankets. She laughed and moved to stroke his hair, as John laid a hand on his shoulder. Molly looked away sharply. 

"Odd thing, those three.” Lestrade commented, as they walked back down the echoing hospital corridor. 

“It is,” Molly said. “They seem happy though. Don’t they?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Lestrade said, and sighed. “Something to aspire to, eh?” He gave her a sideways smile. 

Molly and Lestrade parted company in the porch of the hospital. Molly was about to go and find the bus stop when she noticed a black car draw up, door opening, and a familiar very shiny pair of shoes appear on the pavement. Mycroft Holmes stood, slowly surveying the scene in front of him before locating Molly. He walked towards her. 

“Well, Miss Hooper,” he said. “I hear your case is closed.” 

“Hopefully,” Molly said. “We still don’t know for sure what happened to the Ripper.” 

Mycroft looked down at her. “You do not often accompany my brother in these kind of scrapes,” he said. “I hope it was not a traumatic experience.” 

“No, it was – interesting,” Molly said “Not sure it’s my cup of tea though, generally.” 

There was a pause, as Mycroft regarded her, dark green eyes like the depths of a river. 

“Speaking of which,” Molly said. “Now that this case is solved, you don’t have any reason to come popping into Barts for a cup of tea anymore,” 

Mycroft stiffened very slightly. “I don’t,” he said. “Very true.” 

“In that case,” Molly said. “Do you fancy going out for a drink together sometime? We could pick somewhere nice and you wouldn’t even have to pretend to like what you’re drinking.” 

A slow, but genuine smile spread across Mycroft’s face, crinkling his eyes at the corners. 

“Miss Hooper,” he said. “That would be a very great pleasure.” 

Several months later, a letter arrived at Baker Street, addressed to Kelly Morstan. 

Dear Ms Morstan, 

I hope you are feeling better. I’m writing this letter because I think you deserve to know that he won’t come back. I know they’ll never identify him, but I promise, he won’t hurt another woman again. I saw to that. 

The other thing is, I wanted to tell you how sorry I am. I wish I could apologise to all those other women, but this will have to do. Thing is, my brother was what I made him. We grew up in a house where there never seemed enough love to go round. That’s what I thought anyway. Now I think out parents loved us, they were just busy. Human. Anyway we convinced ourselves our stepmother and father must love their own child more than the ones that were only half theirs. We wrapped each other up in that dark angry fantasy. 

I used to tell him such nasty stories, murders and torture. I loved reading about it, old crimes, better than horror movies. Sometimes we talked about what it would be like to kill our family, live just the two of us. One night I dared Dylan to kill our little brother, like Constance Kent had done. We both thought it was so funny, imagining how upset our parents would be. I didn't think he'd do it. Until the next morning, he climbed onto my bed to tell me it was done. 

I know this can't be of much interest you, Ms Morstan, but I wanted to own the truth. To tell you how much I am to blame. I thought if I took the blame I could protect Dylan, but I was wrong. Now I see, there was a sickness in him, a sickness I fostered. He never forgave me for owning up, and leaving him. When he tracked me down, years after I was released, I turned him away. I knew I was bad for him. I didn't know that even that would make him worse. Because I have to be honest: he killed for me. All of those women, all he wanted was my attention. That’s something I’ll have to carry with me, I suppose, until the end. At least I have the comfort of knowing there will be no more. 

Best of luck with your recovery, 

Connie Cambridge.  
  
Lestrade carefully slotted the letter into a plastic folder at the back of the file, shutting it with a sigh. 

“Closing the case?” Sherlock said from the doorway. 

“Effectively,” Lestrade said. “There’s been no hide nor hair of the Cambridge woman. We’ll keep a watch out, but…” 

“She appears to be very good at hiding,” Sherlock said moving over to the window, looking out. “No matter. I doubt she’s any danger to anyone now,” 

“Be nice if we could say for sure the bastard was dead, though,” Lestrade joined him. It was raining out, he noted, drops running down the window, distorting the world beyond. 

“It would have been good for your career, in any case,” Sherlock said, “The man who saw Jack the Ripper to his grave.” 

“If it was my career I was worried about-“ Lestrade began angrily, and then stopped. With Sherlock Holmes there really wasn’t any point. 

Sherlock had turned to look at him, his pale face looking oddly ghostly in the watery wavering light. 

“I do appreciate the sacrifices you made for me, Detective Inspector,” he said. 

“Oh,” Lestrade said. He supposed that was as close to an apology as he was likely to get. Strangely, it did make him feel a bit better. 

They stood side by side for an oddly comfortable moment, looking out.

“Jesus, look at that,” Lestrade said, as the rain intensified. He could see drops ricocheting off surfaces like bullets. “It’s supposed to be bloody summer soon. Haven’t we had enough rain already?” 

Sherlock looked at him sideways, with an odd half smile. “Is it ever enough,” he said softly. “To wash these old streets clean?” 

Lestrade frowned at him, confused, but Sherlock merely nodded in that infuriatingly enigmatic way of his, and walked to the door, leaving Lestrade in his office with his old file and the sound of the rain battering the windows. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of debate about what colour hair Mary Kelly had - she was nicknamed by her neightbours as 'fair Mary', 'dark Mary' and 'Ginger' respectively, so you can see why people wonder. Kelly Morstan's habit of dying her hair various colours is a reference to this.
> 
> Molly's theories about Jack the Ripper, and the representation of him having a stutter actually come from John F Douglas' psychological profile of him. It's short, easy to read and online if you are interested to read it for yourself: http://vault.fbi.gov/Jack%20the%20Ripper/Jack%20the%20Ripper%20Part%201%20of%201


End file.
